Chasing Butterflies Part One
by DarkUnicorn14
Summary: Jamie Macken is haunted by his past life & forgotten memories that are beginning to resurface-a past life when he was Alois Trancy with Claude Faustus at his side & his ultimate goal was to have Ciel Phantomhive-who is also reborn into this century. Jamie learns that he is just part of a much bigger game, fated to either be a disposible pawn or a winner.
1. Black

_Hello everyone! This one going to be longer than my usual stories, and I'm going to split it into chapters. I don't know the title for the whole thing yet, but when I come up with one I will change the title. For now it will be 'Untitled'. This is a twist of Kuroshitsuji that takes place in the 21__st__ century. I have used characters both from the first season and the second season and I have made some minor changes to them, as you will see, but tried not to change them _too_ much. Please don't be offended or upset if you don't like the changes I made. This is just a fanfiction and the creation of my overactive imagination at 5:00 in the morning. So, yeah. xD_

_Warnings for this chapter: It has a bit of profanity, and the characters might be a little OOC at first. That's about it. I hope that doesn't bother you too much. Please enjoy! I will be posting chapter two as soon as I come up with it._

_Disclaimer: If Kuroshitsuji belonged to me, would this be called a fanfiction?_

**1. Black**

I stare down at the paper on my desk. I've painted several images on it without realizing it, and the creepy thing is that they're all the same.

They're painting of a man, the same man appearing over and over again. He's beautiful. His hair is jet-black, such a deep shade of black that it almost has a purple hue to it, and it sweeps down to his neck and curls over his forehead. He's wearing thick glasses and his jaw is very square and defined. Under the lenses, his eyes are deep and mysterious and a light brown colour that's almost gold. His lashes are thick and dark.

_Dark droplets of liquid… blood on a rose, turning it black. The rose in his coat, symbolizing something… its sickly sweet scent enveloping me as he carries me in the warm circle of his arms that means safety…_

Claude. He's back.

I stand and look around the rest of my room, at the smudged sketches and paintings tacked up on the walls. They depict dark, haunted eyes and white-gloved hands reaching out through the paper; lips pressed against blood-red roses and bodies ensnared together. There's a painting of myself, except that it's not quite right—my pale blue eyes are the same, but I'm dressed ridiculously in a purple velvet jacket, a green vest, _short_ shorts and tall boots, and my tangled hair is short and white-blond instead of long and brown.

And everywhere I look, there's the man looking back at me in the paintings, his golden eyes serious and not even a hint of a smile playing at his lips. He's clad in black, his hair windswept and tumbling down his head.

"Who the fuck are you?" I say to the paintings. I begin to laugh—my laugh is high-pitched and bubbly, girly—but then suddenly I stop and glare at the drawings on my walls. "Seriously. Why the hell am I painting pictures of a man who I even don't know?"

But I do know him from somewhere_._ I have to. I don't have enough imagination to have invented him; he's too _real._ I used to see him when I was little and had no friends; he was like an imaginary friend who I talked to even though he never responded. Around the time I was ten, he disappeared. Now it's been three years and he's back. I see him at school, at the park, in my room, at night, and this time he isn't just in a painting. He's real, a real man stalking me; if I reached out, I could touch him and feel the rough fabric of his coat or the cold smoothness of the buttons on it.

_Cold, the touch of death… Hands in white gloves touching me, holding me. "Don't ever leave me!" And then another voice, his voice, blending into the fog and darkness: "Yes, your Highness…"_

Claude is haunting me.

I drop my paintbrushes into a cup of water, not even caring as the cup tips over and water rushes over my desk, dripping down onto the carpet.

"Jamie?"

I whirl around and relax, seeing my little brother. Lucas is watching me timidly, his brown hair tangled on one side and flat on the other so that I can tell that he's just woken up. Lucas is the only one I will never get angry at for coming in my room without knocking.

"Why are you awake?" I glance at the glowing digits of my clock. It's five o'clock in the morning.

"I couldn't sleep." Lucas pads over to me and looks at me with his grave brown eyes. "The voices were whispering again."

My little brother has always been able to hear the voices. He tried telling our foster parents about them once, but that only got him sent to a shrink, so he never mentioned it to them again. They think he's stopped hearing them, but he still does. It's just me he runs to when their whispers get too loud for comfort. Lucas is the one who heard Claude's name and told it to me. He doesn't see Claude everywhere like I do, but he hears him and all the others that I see standing silently by my bed at night or out my window during the day. While their images haunt me, their voices haunt Lucas.

Lucas touches a soggy drawing on my desk, the lines of the man's face running together from the spilled water. It's not recognizable anymore, for which I'm strangely relieved. "This is wet. Do you want me to help you clean it up?"

"Yeah." I nod, waiting for him to ask who the man is or why he appears all over the walls of my room.

But Lucas doesn't ask more after that, which is another reason why he's the only person in the whole fucking world that I might love. He doesn't pry or ask pointless questions. Instead he goes to the tiny bathroom by my room and returns with a roll of paper towel to help me wipe up the water.

"I'll put it away," I say, grabbing the roll when we've finished. It's my way of thanking him.

When I come back, Lucas is sitting in my bed, looking around. His eyes linger at the paintings of me, the familiar-stranger Jamie Macken, and then at the broken glass beside my bed. The shards are silver and reflect the ceiling—pieces of my mirror.

_Looking at my reflection… but I'm not alone. Claude is in the corner of it, by my doorway, dressed in black, his golden brown eyes never leaving me, and there's something in his hands—a knife? He's coming closer, creeping up behind me—but there can't be anyone behind me! There's only me. Need. To. Escape. Pull back. Fist connects with the mirror, shattering it, breaking the man to pieces that fall uselessly to the floor. And pain in my knuckles, blood dotting my white skin—blood. Bloodbloodbloodblood._

"Oh, Jamie," he says sadly, and opens his arms.

I crawl into bed beside him and let him hug me tightly. His arms are skinny and small, not long enough to wrap around my shoulders, but his hold is strangely comforting. My body shakes and tears burn like acid in my eyes, but Lucas holds me until I stop trembling and my breathing is deeper.

"You had another one," Lucas says when I'm calmer.

I nod. Another… I don't even know what to call it. A fit? An attack? There's no way to explain the sudden bursts of white-hot rage that can engulf me any time without warning, without my having control of it. This time Claude's reflection triggered the attack and I punched my mirror and shattered it.

Our foster parents know about my sudden violent outbreaks, and they've been trying to get me to see a therapist. I attended the first few sessions and then stopped, running away into places like ice cream stores or souvenir shops whenever they dropped me off in front of the building where I'm supposed to have my therapy. They still don't know I'm skipping my sessions and I've managed to hide my aggression from them, keeping it to my room or places where they won't hear about it, so they think that I'm better now.

But I'm not. I'm a wreck, and Lucas knows it. He's seen me lose control, hurting people and myself as that boiling fury roars through me and leaves me shaking and sobbing and snotting, empty of everything.

The only thing I'm more afraid of than the dark is that someday, I'll lose control like that and hurt Lucas. That would kill me because Lucas is all I have left in this fucking miserable life. He's the only thing I have to hang on to.

"You'll get better, Jamie," Lucas promises. "Don't worry. I'll stay here with you."

_Stay. Here. Don't leave me alone again! It's too dark. Not the darkness. Darkness, closing in on all sides, swallowing everything up. Spiders crawling over through it, shedding light, and then peace._

We sleep through the night together, Lucas with his arms around me and his heart beating familiarly against my side. I don't have one nightmare.

**~o~**

When I wake up, I see him standing in front of me. The same man that's in my drawings and dreams. The same fucking man. Claude.

A pathetic whimper comes to my lips. "Go away!" I plead.

Claude doesn't go away. He stands and looks at me, so serious that I think his face will crack and shatter like the mirror if it stays so tense.

Lucas wakes up beside me and looks confused. "Jamie?"

"Go away," I say again.

"He's back, isn't he?" Lucas asks, realization dawning on him. "That's what was wrong yesterday. You saw him in the mirror. That's why you broke it. Where is he?"

Claude doesn't move. I can't stop looking at him. His eyes are like honey: liquid gold.

"He's right here, by the bed. By the fucking bed," I spit, not taking my eyes off him. "Claude, why the fuck are you here?"

"He's saying something," Lucas says. "He's the voice I can hear."

"What is he saying?" I crane my ears, but Claude is as silent to me as he always is, just serious and watchful and alert.

"I-I don't know…" Lucas frowns. "Something 'your Highness'… I can't tell."

"_Yes, your Highness." A face. His brother, Luca. Limp brown hair, vacant grey eyes, face empty. Dead. No, not his brother. His brother was… Lucas, in bed beside him. Or… Luca? Which one? Luca…_

I grit my teeth and glare at Claude. "Fuck you, Claude," I whisper to him. "Fuck you."

**~o~**

I don't give a flying fuck about school, so I sleep through most of it. Normally I get away with it, but today is becoming an exceptionally bad day. My history teacher notices and starts yelling at me, causing everyone to stare at me accusingly. I doodle all of English class, not listening at all to the teacher's speech on conjunctions and prepositions and ignoring the whispers of the girls who sit behind me and who can clearly see the drawings on my page.

To top it all off, Claude is closer than usual, right beside me instead of at the back of the room whenever I raise my head. I want to tell him to fuck off, but that would draw attention to myself if people noticed me shouting at someone they couldn't see. I don't want another visit to the therapist.

Art is probably my favourite class, and the one class that I actually care to make an effort in. Today the teacher announces that we will be using acrylic paint to paint a dream we've recently had. I've had so many dreams lately that I'll have lots of choice. It'll be an easy assignment.

I start by using black and adding a bit of white, mixing the mushy paint into a dark, dark grey that I smear all over the paper. Then I add darker black for fleeting shadows here and there. I don't have much artistic talent, but it still gives it a spooky quality.

_Darkness. Shadows. Faces… Claude's face, watching me. Narrow gold eyes that seem to see right through me into my soul, not fooled by lies or deceptions…_

I draw in Claude's eyes floating in the top right corner and add a streak of purple for his hair. Then a blotch of white: his gloves. In the painting, Claude has no particular form; he is just eyes and lips and limbs in disarray, cloaked in shadows. At the bottom I paint a red rose and smudge it so that it looks like it's bleeding all over the paper under Claude's feet.

_Bloodbloodbloodbloodblood._

The teacher passes by and stops at my table, looking at my painting with raised eyebrows. "Well done, Jamie." Her voice sounds impressed. "It gives the impression of chaos and confusion, all veiled with mystery. You're using your negative and positive space very nicely. Do you have a title for it?"

I shake my head.

"Well, you should think of one. Every piece of art needs a title. Keep working on it." She leaves.

I stare down at the painting, trying to think up a reasonable title. 'Bloody Vows' is the first one I think of for some reason, but I don't like it for the painting. It's too fancy. Just like the teacher says, this is chaos and confusion and terror. This needs a simple title that can sum it all up.

Then it comes to me. 'Black'. Simple and chilling. Perfect.

Suddenly the hair on my arms and legs stands on end and chills race up and down my spine. I feel very cold, as if a shadow has fallen over me. I turn slowly and see Claude standing there, looking at my painting with something like mild amusement on his face. The first expression I've seen from him.

"What do you want now?" I ask him, but he doesn't reply. I didn't expect him to. "Why the fuck are you following me around?"

A few kids nearby give me odd looks, but I glare at them and they quickly go back to their own paintings.

Claude steps forwards as if to see my painting more clearly and his arm brushes my shoulder, sending a shock of pure ice through me and freezing my veins. For a moment I can't breathe; my lungs are full of broken glass and my mouth is frozen shut.

Expressionlessly, Claude moves to the side so that we're not touching anymore, and the ice inside me thaws. I look around the room, desperate to know that I'm not the only one who can see Claude. That I'm not as crazy as people think.

But there's nothing. Everyone is focused on their own tasks, not paying attention to me and not even seeing Claude. It's like he's invisible—a ghost. I always thought that it was the dead that I could see and their voices that Lucas can hear, but that makes no sense. If Claude were a ghost, I wouldn't be able to touch him. My shoulder would've passed right through him just now instead of rubbing against the black material of his jacket and feeling that coldness radiating out of him.

Whatever Claude is, he's not a ghost. He is very much alive.

**~o~**


	2. Grey

_Warnings for this chapter are mild violence, Jamie's language (if you've read chapter one, you'll know what I mean) and his fantasies of blood, darkness and aggression. Please enjoy and tell me what you think in your reviews!_

_Disclaimer: If Kuroshitsuji belonged to me, could this be called a fanfiction?_

**2. Grey**

The next day, there's a new girl in my history class. The teacher doesn't introduce her, but I listen (for what must be the first time) when he takes attendance and find out that her name is Skye.

I stare at the new girl curiously with the rest of the class. My first impression of her is _small._ She's short and slender, her legs needle-thin and her hands like doll hands at the ends of her skinny arms. Her hair is a charcoal colour that I've never seen on a girl before, not quite black but more of a dark grey. Under the sweep of her bangs, her eyes are large and blue. Her tight jeans hug her legs elegantly, showing off her curves, and she's wearing a thin blouse with lots of frilly lace.

And she's so _tiny._ I can't get over her size—so thin and small that it would be easy to snap her in half, almost like breaking a toothpick. I can imagine taking her in my hands doing it: first there would be slight resistance, but then the pressure would be too much and _snap!_ She would crack in two and her insides would leak out onto my palms. They would be warm and slippery, wet with blood, and her fragile body would lie limp in my arms like a broken doll, twisted but still hauntingly beautiful. Her charcoal hair would be darker grey with sweat, her brilliant blue eyes turning vacant.

I shake my mind away from those thoughts. It's too easy to lose control here in school, when there's nothing to keep my mind busy with.

_Twist and snap and crunch. Screams. Claude's voice in my ear, asking me if I want them dead. Yes. Another snap. Another scream. A spatter of bright red liquid. Bloodbloodbloodbloodblood_—

Don't. Think. About. It.

The teacher is droning on and on about Napoleon's involvement in some war that I've never bothered to learn about, and I try to listen to keep my mind busy, but it's too boring. My eyes automatically wander to the view outside the window, but Claude is standing there, piercing me with his solemn gaze.

"_Don't leave me alone! Promise me you'll stay." Clinging onto him, for he's precious… he can't leave…_

I look away and pretend that I don't see him watching me.

My pencil is in my hands and I begin to sketch a person: long black bangs framing a face, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes, think lips. No colour on his skin—it's fair and white with just a hint of at the hollows of his cheeks, like shadows on snow. When I look at the finished piece, I'm looking at an unfamiliar man who is every bit as mysterious and striking as Claude.

_Something stolen. A memory. Deep black… and a rustling sound. Feather? Wings? The glow of red eyes glinting and a voice, low and seductive, vowing for revenge… for his blood…_

I erase the drawing, but my pencil has pressed too hard and the faint outline of the man remains on the page like a scar, marring the white smoothness. A ghost.

I drop my head onto my arm and idly watch a spider crawling down the leg of the desk next to mine, entranced as it scuttles down slowly on its long legs. It's dark grey, just like Skye's hair. I've always loved spiders for some reason. There's just something so attractive about them and the way they're so graceful and beautiful and deadly at the same time.

Just then, the occupant of the desk spots the spider, too. I try to remember her name—Hannah, I think. I've never liked her very much. She's always too talkative and loud with all of her friends, reminding me of how I have none.

Hannah screams, "A spider!" and suddenly every girl in the class is shrieking.

Every girl except Skye. She sits in her chair, her back poker-straight and her posture stiff, looking at the whiteboard at the front of the class with her hands neatly folded in her lap. There's something in her demeanour, in the way she holds her chin high with pride and defiance that calls to me. It's familiar. But from where?

_Grey hair, so silky when I touch it. Her eyes are the colour of dark blue bottle glass rubbed smooth by the ceaseless pounding of the ocean waves… her? No, him. It's a boy, small and thin, wearing elaborate clothes covered with lace and pearls. His small hands push me away, and a blue diamond glints in a ring on his finger…_

I look away from Skye to Hannah. She's kicked out and the spider, alarmed, is dashing over towards me. Hannah's shadow falls over it, a textbook clenched in her hand. She raises her arm high and gets ready to bring it down on the spider, to smash it onto the ground so that it becomes a pile of oozing guts and stick legs.

Suddenly, the spider's feelings are the same as my own, and the familiar tide of rage begins to creep into my body. Sweat appears all over my skin.

_Darkness. Blind. Trapped. Have. To. Escape. Run. He's coming for me, for his revenge. Bloodbloodblood. Get away. Escape. Runrunrunrunrun—_

I catch her arm and twist, riding the wave of pure fury that crashes into me without bothering to try and rein it in. The spider darts away to safety just as the textbook falls to the floor and I smile, feeling cold satisfaction and even amusement at the _crunch_ under my fingers and Hannah's cry of pain as I agonizingly slowly crush the bones in her arm.

_Snap, pop, crunch. Snap, pop, crunch. Bones dangling uselessly. The metallic taste and scent of blood._

There's something so familiar about the feel of breaking someone's arm, of hearing their tormented screams. It doesn't bother me. It's as if I've done this to someone before, but I haven't. I would remember if I were a torturer.

_I reach out, laughing, and dig my fingers into her eye, twisting it around and feeling the 'pop' of it being torn out. Then there's the warmth of blood trickling over my fingers, streaming out of her now empty socket and down her cheeks like red tears—_

"James Macken!" the teacher shouts. Other than Hannah's cries, it's silent, and I realize that every person in the room has jumped to their feet and is staring at me. Even Skye. Her dark eyes are fixated on me and some emotion plays across her face.

My smile fades and I can feel the ice hardening in my eyes, my jaw clenching. "What?" I say defensively, mostly to Skye because the revulsion in her expression strangely bothers me a lot. "Why the fuck are you looking at me like that? She tried to kill it." I squeeze Hannah's arm and feel the last bone give way under the pressure, snapping. It's just how I imagined breaking Skye would be like, only not even half as satisfying because it's Hannah's cloudy blue-violet eyes that are staring at me in terror, not those captivating sapphire ones.

I let go of Hannah and she crumples onto the ground, finally losing consciousness. Her arm hangs uselessly by her side.

"You're all idiots," I finally say, breaking the silence. "It was a spider. She was going to kill it. I couldn't let her." I swallow, narrowing my eyes and glaring hatefully back at the rest of the class. "You're all fucking idiots."

"Aleister and Fred, please take Hannah to the nurse," the teacher says in a choked voice. The two boys nod and pick Hannah up, struggling to keep her upright and dragging her out of the class. Then the teacher glowers at me. "And you, James Macken, are to go straight to the principal's office."

_An order. "Yes, my lord." No, wait… not lord… that's something else. Someone else. "Yes, your Highness." Luca bowing to me, grinning, grey eyes bright. Claude, inclining his head. Obey. I am the master. Stay with me. Don't… leave me. Never._

My face ripples like water into a smile and I laugh—my girly, bubbly laugh making everyone in the room jump. I don't care.

"Thank you for your attention!" I say. "I'll escort myself out." I spin on my heel and walk out of the room, feeling the weight of Skye's eyes following me all the way out.

**~o~**

The principal's office is bland, like everything else in the school. The walls are grey and her desk is black, the monitor of her computer dark. Papers are stacked neatly and pens are collected in a can made from metal mesh.

I slump in a chair opposite the principal with my legs crossed and my head tilted sideways, staring at her desk. It's made from dark wood, and my fingernails make indents like half-moons when I press them into the edge of it.

_Digging my nails into flesh and leaving crescent scars… Blood shining. And dark grey hair—his hair. He looks up at me so enticingly and… I. Want. Him._

"…do you have anything to say?" Having finished her lecture on how important it was to maintain the school's 'excellent' reputation and students showing respect towards their peers and bla bla bla, she sits back in her leather chair and watches me attentively.

"Yes." I frown. "Why is your office so dull?"

Her face goes blank with surprise. "James—"

"No, really?" I insist. I reach out and touch the wallpaper, tugging on a bit that's started to peel off. "Why grey? Why not orange or green or pink or…" I remember the colour of Skye's eyes. "Or blue?"

"James, this is really not the time—"

I kick my chair back and stand up abruptly. "I'm leaving," I say. "Thanks for the lovely speech." Not that I even fucking heard half of it. "Bye."

"James!" Now her voice is cutting and sharp, cracking out like a whip and freezing me in my tracks. I'm halfway to the door, but her voice stops me from going the rest of the way.

From escaping.

She's saying something about calling my foster parents and a temporary suspension, but I'm not listening. Her words are very faint and far away. I look to the side and see Claude smirking by the door.

_Trapped. Dark. Have to get out. Have to… Make a wish. The fairies will come and… no, wait, not fairies. Him. He came instead. Claude, my knight in black armour. Take me away from the darkness…_

Anger and adrenaline mixes together inside of me. I'm a tiger being hunted and my first instinct is to survive.

_Survive. Fight. The. Darkness._

My body unfreezes and I flee the room, running through the empty halls of the school and bounding down the stairs like I have wings. I don't stop running, not even when I burst out through the double doors. I look up at the sky. It's drizzling, the rain plastering my long hair to my forehead and gathering on my lashes so that my vision is blurry. The sky is cloudy and grey, but much paler of a grey than Skye's hair.

I run into the street and dodge cars, hearing their horns honking and their voices shouting at me that I'm an idiot and to get out of the way.

_Get out._ I laugh loudly, startling a mother that's standing at the corner with a stroller, waiting for the light to turn green. She looks at me suspiciously and moves away with her baby.

I ignore her and laugh again. Get out? That's what I'm trying to do. It's what I've always been trying to do. Escape the darkness, the corrupted memories that ooze their way through my mind like spoiled milk, leaking out and tainting everything with their foul scent.

Fight them. Get out.

I wonder if I will ever really see sunlight again or if the world will stay grey forever.

**~o~**


	3. Roses

_Warnings: Again, Jamie's language. You can make a mental note that that will always be included in every chapter as a warning. And Jamie being Alois-like around Claude. That is all._

_Disclaimer: If Kuroshitsuji belonged to me, would this be called a fanfiction?_

**3. Roses**

I catch a bus and go downtown for a while, wandering around idly into the shops that line the streets for several hours without a clear idea of where I'm going. I find a wrinkled bill in the back pocket of my jeans and I buy a hoodie at one of the stores. It's pink and it has fake light blue gemstones that match my eyes and flowers embroidered onto the pockets. It's obviously a girl's hoodie, but I don't give a flying fuck. All the boys' clothes are sporty and dull and uninteresting. It isn't fair that girls' clothes are always so much prettier—what if guys want to be pretty, too?

I giggle at the image that comes to mind of my foster father, stern-faced and grim, wearing one of the lacy purple blouses that I saw in the store.

Outside, the rain's stopped, but the wind is still icy cold and goes right through my shirt. I pull the hoodie on and plunge my hands into my pockets, grateful for its warmth. Curled brown leaves blow across the pavement with a scraping sound that reminds me of nails on a chalkboard.

Chalkboard. That reminds me of the trouble I've gotten into at school. My foster parents will be angry; they consider education an important factor in adolescents. I guess education is important, but not the kind that school offers. _Why_ exactly do I need to learn math equations that I'll probably never use again in my life? _Why_ is it important for me to know about what ancient people did in the past?

'So that you can learn from their mistakes and not repeat them', one could say, but I think that you never really learn unless you experience it yourself the hard way.

I'm not too bothered with school. I was failing all my classes but Art, anyways. However, my foster parents can be a problem. I don't feel like going home after spending the afternoon in the cold, pouring rain only to be lectured again on how fucking irresponsible I am.

I decide that I'll stay out late here until I can be sure that my foster parents won't be awake when I come back to their house. Lucas will think of something to explain my absence.

There's a Starbucks at the corner and I walk in, my shoes squelching with water as I go to the counter. The cashier openly stares at my girly hoodie and my long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail, but I glare at her and she forces a tight smile.

"Hello. Welcome to Starbucks! How can I help you?"

"I'll have a venti hot chocolate and an oat fudge bar," I say, ordering the largest size of drink they have.

When I've paid and received my food and drink, I sit at one of the small tables—the kind that are always sticky and covered in crumbs. The hot drink brings the feeling back into my fingers. The oat fudge bar is okay, but I get a strange feeling that I've eaten better, tastier delicacies before. Which is odd, considering that my foster family isn't rich and I probably haven't had dessert in years.

A tingling feeling creeps up the back of my neck, like I'm being watched. I look around for Claude, but surprisingly he's nowhere to be seen. However, there's a different man who I don't recognize sitting at a table behind me. He's wearing a thick button-up coat that falls to his knees and the collar is turned up to his chin. A black fedora is pulled low over his eyes, shadowing his face. There's an open newspaper in front of him, but with his face hidden like that, there's no way to tell whether he's really reading it or if he's watching me.

I stand up abruptly, my chair squeaking in protest. Grabbing my drink and leaving my garbage on the table, I pause and glance sideways at the man. Yes, he's definitely watching me. His scarlet eyes flash under the brim of his hat.

Wait, scarlet? What kind of a man has _scarlet_ eyes?

_Dark eyes like pools of red wine… The whisper of his black hair rustling like feather in a non-existent breeze… His voice mocking and low and beautiful all at once like a dark melody… Then a boy's voice—_his_ voice—saying, "Sebastian, this is an order. Kill him!"_

_Escape. Need to escape. The glint of a knife, of those scarlet eyes, and then his mocking laugh rumbling around me like thunder. Fear wrenching at me like a dagger in my gut—_

I quickly leave the coffee shop.

The next few hours go by quickly. I use the last of my money to get into a movie at the theatre and I pick a seat at the front in the very corner, where no one will pay attention to me. I fall asleep somewhere in the middle of the movie. I stir just as the credits are beginning and once everyone has left, I hide under my seat to wait for the next movie to start. When it does, my eyes close almost immediately. I've zoned out into my little world where it's just me and pink butterflies and frosted glasses of cool lemonade and rich chocolate cakes with fresh berries and dollops of whipped cream and—

And Claude.

Except that it isn't Claude. Not as I know him. The Claude I know who follows me around wears worn black jeans and a dark blue wool sweater overtop of a thin white T-shirt. This Claude is wearing a crisp suit and a bow around his neck, and his thin hands are gloved.

"Um… hi. Why are you dressed so weirdly? And what are you doing here?" I demand. "This is my place." I look up at the cloudless blue sky and the pink butterflies soaring through it as if to make sure that it really is.

Claude raises a thin eyebrow.

A sudden urge to laugh overcomes me and I giggle hysterically. "Yes, it's my happy place and it's mine. You're not supposed to be here." I sound remarkably cheerful and my smile is so wide that my jaw is beginning to hurt. "Fuck off," I say happily.

Claude smirks faintly, but doesn't reply.

For the first time, I take a look at my surroundings. It's pretty. I'm in some kind of garden surrounded with hedges and pink rosebushes, and there are marble fountains everywhere shooting droplets of crystal clear water that sparkles in the sunlight like diamonds. Birdsong fills the air, bubbly and harmonious and cheerful. Behind me is the gloom of a thick forest, but in front is the garden with paved paths weaving their way through the flowerbeds and fountains. In the distance, I can see the silhouette of a huge mansion.

"What is this place?" I muse to myself. I narrow my eyes and see the tiny figure of a man standing by the steps to the mansion. He's tall and slender like Claude, but I catch the flicker of his scarlet eyes before he turns away.

It's the man who was in the Starbucks, except that he's lost the thick coat and the hat. Now he's dressed in a black suit with a tie and a tailcoat that billows behind him in the wind. Something silver flashes in the sunlight, and I realize that it's the chain of a pocket watch.

"Fucker," I mutter. "What's he doing in my happy place? I thought the therapist said that my happy place was only for me." I glance at Claude. "Me and my stalker," I correct.

Claude takes a pair of hedge clippers and begins trimming the hedges neatly. A steady snipping sound fills the air as bright green leaves shower to the ground.

Then a thought comes to me. "Is _he_ a stalker too?" I ask Claude.

But he only shrugs and raises his hands palms-up as if to say, 'How should I know?'

"Hmm." I saunter over to one of the fountains and dip my hand in the icy cold water, giggling as a thin, silver fish nibbles at my fingers. "I like this place," I say contentedly. "You know what, Claude? Maybe the therapist was right. Maybe I can still be happy here."

The hedge clippers slip and accidentally cut a rose off. It falls onto the ground and I run over to it and pick it up, cupping it in my palms.

"Claude!" I frown. "They're pretty. And pink. I think pink is my favourite colour now," I say, looking down at the girly hoodie that I'm still wearing. Then I remember the rose in my hand and add, "Be more careful! I don't want you to cut the roses."

Claude dips his head obediently and continues to trim the hedges, but with more caution.

I observe the rose, folding back the leaves. The pale pink petals are velvety and wet with dewdrops when I touch them, like persevered tears. It's perfect and smells sweet when I sniff it—too sweet. Too perfect. Too pretty.

Suddenly I'm angry. I don't know who I'm angry at, only that it isn't fair for such perfection to exist when the world is so cruel and dark.

_Darkness… It's all dark. Everything, everyone, gone… completely annihilated. Even little Luca. There's only me._

I throw the rose on the ground, furious for some reason I can't fathom. Above me, thunder rumbles and the sky darkens, heavy clouds gathering in it where I'm certain there had been no trace of them before. Then lightning splits the clouds and rain begins to fall, pattering down on the flowers and plants and dancing on the surface of the water in the fountains.

Claude puts away his hedge clippers and looks at me. The rain has stuck his dark hair to his forehead and the nape of his neck and his wet clothes cling to him, showing off his slender figure. He looks hot that way, slightly dishevelled with beads of water rolling down his face and his dorky glasses all misty from his breath.

On an impulse, I reach out and wipe the fogged glass, clearing it so that I can see his eyes. They're cat eyes, I decide: narrow and tapered at the corners, a yellow-gold colour that has brown specks in it.

Claude pushes his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose. Teasingly, I pull them back down just to annoy him and see how he reacts. I'm disappointed; he only calmly fixes them again and then turns to walk to the mansion.

"Claude!" I protest. "You're so fucking stupid. Why don't you ever say anything? Or why don't you _smile?_" Sticking my bottom lip out in a pout, I grab Claude's face between my hands and stretch his mouth, trying to make it look like he's smiling.

Claude tolerates it for a few minutes, but when my fingers move up to twine themselves in his hair, he moves away. I giggle, stand on tip-toe and wrap my arms around his neck, tilting my head and letting my tongue flick out at his cheek.

"Claude," I whisper.

He doesn't say anything, as per usual. Instead he bends down to pick up the rose I discarded and hands it back to me.

I lean in towards him and stick the rose in a button hole on his jacket. "Who the fuck are you?" I ask him, grinning. I reach up to touch his face again, but I'm surprised when Claude brushes me away.

He turns and walks towards the mansion, where I can still see the other man waiting. Claude doesn't acknowledge him, but the other man watches his ascent up the steps to the door of the mansion. I watch him, too, until he disappears inside and the heavy doors fall shut and I'm left alone in the garden with the pink butterflies and roses and my dreams.

~o~

I awaken from my dream to darkness. My initial reaction is to panic, but I force myself to calm down and look around. I'm still in the theatre, but the screen is dark. The movie must have ended and no one must have noticed that I was still here, sleeping.

I trail my fingers over the seats while I walk through the rows, noticing the still half-empty bags of popcorn and the discarded paper cups that people didn't bother to clean up. My stomach grumbles, making me wonder how long I've been sleeping here. I scoop up a handful of popcorn out of one of the bags, tossing it in my mouth, and kick the others out of my way as I go to the double doors. I push against them, but they don't budge.

Locked.

Well, fuck that. I'll just sleep in my corner and hope that by the time I wake up, it will be morning and I'll be able to leave discreetly.

I curl up in the seat, feeling the rough material scratch my cheek. It's not the most comfy place to sleep, but I don't have any other choice. I never have. I've always just endured, surviving because I had to. Because Lucas needed me and I had to live for him. And maybe also because some small part of me thought that there might be something worth living for, like the glimpse of that pink rose when the sky was grey.

Sleep is hard when that's all I've been doing for the past few hours. It's especially hard when it's this dark. I've always been scared of the dark, all my life. I don't know why. Some part of me just cowers whenever I think of gloom and darkness and being unable to see what the shadows are hiding. It's like in instinct, an equation that's been carved into my heart: Jamie + darkness = bad.

Fear creeps into my mouth, tasting hot and metallic like blood, but I take shallow, shaky breaths and tell myself I'm okay. There's just me and the seats and whatever else is hiding in them.

I banish that thought before it can unnerve me even more, because more panic is the last thing I need.

A shadow breaks away from the others and floats towards me. I cringe and squeeze my eyes shut, waiting for something—the crack and sting of a whip, or the burning fire of being hit, or the anguished pleasure of being sexually aroused. But nothing happens.

I open my eyes and make out Claude's face. He's sitting in the seat beside me, not looking at me but not completely ignoring me either. I can just imagine him like a horse, his ears pricked towards me to pick up any noise I might make.

"Claude," I whisper hoarsely. "Don't leave me."

"_Don't go. Stay here." His voice complying: "Yes, your Highness." Then his arms tightening around me, holding me…_

"Yes, your Highness…" The whisper is like a breath of wind around me, the words melting into each other, the double s's drawn out like a hiss. The voice is familiar.

Then arms are encircling me, shielding me from the darkness and the nightmares that are reaching out to me, and I fall asleep to the scent of roses in Claude's arms.

**~o~**

_Roses. The scent is heavy in the air, like perfume. I'm in the gardens, sitting on a stone bench by the flower bushes and thinking about _him_—about his sapphire blue eyes and dark grey hair and the flash of his ring on his fingers and that tiny smirk always on his lips. He's mine. I'll have him, whatever it takes. And I know that Claude will help me._

When I rouse from my sleep, Claude's gone, but the faint smell of roses is still there. I spot something pink in the seat beside me and frown, picking it up. It's the rose from the garden in my dream—the one I put in Claude's coat pocket. It must have fallen out last night.

Except that that's impossible, because it was only a dream, so how can Claude really have had it at all? But he must have because it's right here in the seat beside me where Claude was last night, and I fell asleep in his arms smelling it.

I push through the double doors and blink at the sudden light. After the darkness, it's blinding. The theatre's just opened, and there are only a few people who give me odd looks as I pass them. One old man doesn't stop staring at my hoodie, and I give him the finger on my way out.

Outside, the sun has finally come out. The roads are slick with water—it must have rained all night—and shine in the faint gold light. The leaves of the trees by the entrance to the theatre dance in the wind, flashing like spinning coins.

I peel the petals off the rose and let the wind snatch them up, taking them away. I have no idea how the rose came from my dream into reality, and I'm not that interested to find out. If it _was_ real, that would also mean that how I acted with Claude… that was real, too.

And I don't want it to be real. Some small part of me _wants_ Claude, but another part tells me that he's a grown man, and that I would only humiliate myself. I'm embarrassed by the Jamie Macken in the dream, the one who was climbing all over Claude. I would prefer to forget that it ever happened.

I keep one rose petal, though, and nonchalantly slip it into my pocket. Just in case I need a reminder of what happiness feels like.

**~o~**


	4. Red

_Warnings: Jamie's language and some violence._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji or it wouldn't be called fanfiction!_

**4. Red**

My foster parents' house is… not the most glamorous house on the street. It's a tiny bungalow with about three rooms total, not including the kitchen and living room. Lucas, my foster parents and I all share one bathroom—ew, just fucking _ew_—and my room is more like a large closet with my paintings as wallpaper.

Walking up the street (after having hitchhiked in three different cars), I can't help thinking that the house looks sad. It used to be dark red, but the paint on the siding got so old and worn by the rain and the wind that now it's peeling and a pale grey-purple colour. The two windows on both sides of the dented, beaten up door are dark, the blinds closed, and the roof seems to sag in the middle. The steps up to the porch creak when I put my weight on them. There's a doorbell, but it's been broken for as long as I can remember.

I don't bother knocking. I just open the door and walk in. It's rarely locked—no thief would try to steal something from such a pathetic place, anyways. There wouldn't be anything to steal. My foster parents lock the door at night, though, just in case. Not that the lock does anything. If someone wanted to, they could easily climb through a window or break the door off the rusty hinges to get in.

We have a small television, but it's a rickety old thing and the VCR never works. But Lucas and I still watch cartoons every Saturday morning, even if the screen is grainy and it's all in black and white. It's like a tradition between the two of us. Lucas will wake up first and he'll come get me, and then we'll grab a bag of chips and watch TV while eating junk food until our foster parents wake up and make coffee and some 'healthy' multigrain breakfast.

Today is Saturday, so it's no wonder that I walk into the living room and see Lucas sitting on the worn couch, watching something on the TV. The couch must be almost as old as the house. It too sags in the middle—the springs are broken—and the colour has been rubbed away by all the butts sitting on it in the past. I always try not to think of just how many butts that might be.

"Jamie!" Lucas jumps to his feet and runs up to me, flinging his arms around my waist. "Where were you? Mum and Dad were worried!"

I never call Mrs. and Mr. High-And-Mighty-Foster-Parents 'Mum' or 'Dad', but Lucas does. I guess it makes him feel more at home. But my foster parents have never been close, so I just roll my eyes at what Lucas said and fall onto the couch. The springs squeal in protest, but I don't even shift my position.

"But don't worry. I told them that you were just sleeping over at a friend's. Daniel wanted you to come over and play video games and you decided to stay the night," Lucas says very seriously.

I laugh. "Daniel?" I don't have any friends. And I don't even _know _anyone named Daniel.

"I asked Micah to ask his older brother to call Mum and tell her that he was Daniel, your friend," he tells me. "We covered for you."

Have I ever mentioned how much I love my little brother? He's my reliable partner in crime; he's my family when I need someone to take care of me; he's my spy when I need to find out information; he's the 'enter' of entertainment when I need some fun.

"Thanks, dude," I say, fist-bumping him gently.

"But where were you for real?" Lucas sits beside me and snakes a grubby hand into the bowl of chips, but I swat it away.

"Your hands. Dirty. Go wash them," I order. Lucas is the only one that I've ever tried to take actual care of. I know that he still deserves so much more than this old TV and chipped bowls of stale chips and fucking stupid _me_ looking after him, but he's got nothing else. So I try my best to act adult-like and take proper care of him, even if that only goes to the extent of me telling him to look both ways before crossing the road or reminding him to wash his hands.

"Your hands are dirty, too," Lucas complains, eying the dirt encrusted under my fingernails. But he goes and washes his hands anyways while I finish off the chips, licking my fingers greedily. All I had to eat last night was that snack at Starbucks and a bit of popcorn.

Hardly enough. I'm still starving.

I go into the kitchen and Lucas follows me like a shadow, grinning. It makes me feel warm inside to know that he's grinning just because I'm here. Whenever I walk into a room, his face breaks into a smile and he starts chattering excitedly. He adores me, even though I'm not worth it.

Lucas climbs onto the counter, opens a cupboard and grabs two glasses, inspecting them to see whether they're dirty or not. They're relatively clean, so he opens the fridge and pours us some milk while I shoo the flies away from the fruit bowl and pick out a banana.

"Oooh, are we having _that?_" he says eagerly, his grey eyes lighting up when he sees me peeling it.

"If you want to."

Lucas loves bananas. He's like a monkey—half wild, running all over the place and swinging over everything, eating bananas and looking cute for a living.

I slice the banana, put peanut butter on it and then scatter chocolate chips on top. Lucas's all-time favourite snack. Then we grab our food and go back to the couch.

"What are you watching?" I ask him, frowning as on the TV, a weird spiky cat grins wickedly at the screen and holds up a box marked _explosives_.

"I don't know." Lucas giggles as the cat 'accidentally' blows itself up, and then he's serious again. "I wasn't really paying attention. I was worrying about you."

"Sorry, kiddo," I say, messing up his hair. "Shit at school. I mean, something happened at school." I try not to swear so much around Lucas. He's a good kid, really. I don't want him to learn from me and mess stuff up like I always do, or start saying the things I say.

"You never answered my question," Lucas says with a mouth full of banana and chocolate. "What happened?"

"Suspended again," I say nonchalantly, as if it happens all the time. Which it does.

Lucas's eyes widen. "Are you going to be expelled?"

I shrug. "I don't care. Nothing for me there anyways. Except art class, but I can still paint at home."

"Why were you suspended?" he demands. "What went wrong this time?"

I take care of Lucas, but in a way, he also takes care of me. He's like a parent sometimes, getting worried for me and encouraging me to take my education more seriously.

I steal a chocolate chip off his banana, trying to avoid eye contact. "This girl was trying to kill a spider. I... freaked out. You know how it goes."

He does. I'm not proud to admit it, but he's seen me lose control and what I can do.

"So what did you do?"

"I broke her arm." I shrug as if it doesn't matter. It doesn't, to me.

Lucas grins. "That's my big brother! I bet you could beat anyone in a fight," he boasts to no one in particular.

I grab Lucas by the shoulders tightly and shake him roughly. "No!" My voice comes out much too loud and I lower it to a harsh whisper. "No. Don't think like that, Lucas. It's not good. I shouldn't have done it."

"It's not your fault you had an attack." He sounds so gullible; he never believes that anything is my fault. "It's her fault for triggering it."

"Shut up, Lucas." I let go of him and sink back down onto the pillows. "It's no one's fault but mine. Now let's talk about something else."

"Okay. Guess what? I saw Claude."

"_What?_" I jump to my feat, my heart pounding. "When?" My eyes dart around the room as if I expect Claude to jump out at us from behind a chair or a lamp.

"Yesterday night. I dunno why. I've never seen him before, only heard him." Lucas frowned. "He spoke, too. He asked me what your name was and when I told him, he muttered something about 'he's forgotten almost everything' and 'my master… lost'." Lucas made quote signs in the air with his fingers.

"His… master?"

"Yeah!" Lucas nods enthusiastically. "And then he told me to come with him, but I told him that I had to wait for you because you were out. I wouldn't have left without you." He smiles reassuringly.

"Lucas! _Never_ go with Claude, do you understand me?" Sweat beads on my brow and I hug my brother tightly to make up for my harsh words. "Stay away from him. Ignore his voice."

"Jamie? Why are you getting so upset?" Lucas's smile fades and a troubled look comes into his eyes. "I know Claude bothers you, but of course I won't go with him. You told me before never to go anywhere with strangers."

"He's not a stranger." I don't know why I say it, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Some part of me insists that it's true, while another wants to deny it.

"Oh. Really?" Lucas laughs. "Well, okay, but he's strange!"

I force myself to smile. "Yeah, he sure is."

Fuck. Now Claude's going after my brother! Why does he want Lucas? Lucas is _mine._ Claude can't touch him. In fact, if he even _looks_ at Lucas, I think I'll kill him. Like actually, I _will_ stick a knife through his ribs.

We spend the rest of the morning watching stupid cartoons on the TV, and I can almost pretend that it's just any normal Saturday. But _almost_ can make all the difference, especially when the back of my neck prickles and I raise my head to see Claude standing outside the window.

Fuck you, I think to him, trying to send the thought telepathically. Leave Lucas the hell alone.

The show about the stupid cat (he died and came back to life _five times,_ damn it; I wish I could do that) has just ended and a new one is beginning when my foster parents wake up. I can hear one of them showering and the other one banging drawers while they get dressed. Uh oh. Time for me to leave.

"I gotta go," I tell Lucas. "I don't really want to stay for the whole lecture thing."

"Should I tell them that you came back?" he asks.

"I don't care. Say what you want, but don't say anything about Claude," I warn.

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Of course not. I'm not _that_ stupid, Jamie. Wait, don't go yet. Let me get something from my room." He runs through the hall and I wait impatiently, my muscles tensing as I hear the shouts getting louder.

Lucas returns just as I decide to leave. He pushes a bag into my hands. "I made this awhile ago for you. I thought there might be a time when you got into trouble. Don't look through it now. Go away somewhere first."

"Okay, thanks…" I sling it over my shoulder and kiss him on the head. "I don't know when I'll come back. Be good and don't get into trouble." I love you, I think, but I don't say it,

"Bye, Jamie!" Lucas runs and jumps on the couch to finish watching his cartoons and I'm just about to leave my house just as my foster mother walks into the room.

Oh, shit.

Mrs. Cordelia Macken is a tall, skinny woman with a long face—I always thought that it resembled a horse's. Her blond hair isn't gold-toned, but more of a dusty yellow, and her eyes are more grey than green. Right now, they're wide and she's staring at me in shock.

"Jamie!" she exclaims. "You're back."

"Uh, yeah." I hold Lucas's bag behind my back and slowly back away. Maybe I can still get away if I get close enough to the door…

Mrs. Macken frowns. "I didn't know you had a friend named Daniel," she accuses. Now that the shock is fading, her voice is turning clipped and disappointed.

I didn't either, I think, and have to stifle a giggle. "Yeah, well," I say lamely. "I do. He's cool. He likes… video games."

"So I heard." The disappointing frown hasn't left her face yet. "Did you have a good time?"

"Mmhmm." I nod, smile—anything to keep her busy while I edge closer to the door.

"Good. Because you won't be again for a long time, Jamie. I heard from the principal of your school." She waits, watching for my reaction.

Again, shit.

"Oops." I stick my tongue out. "Did that get back to you?"

Mrs. Macken scowls. "Yes, and you, Jamie Macken, are in big trouble."

I'm not a little kid anymore, and that threat is far from intimidating. "So, what are you gonna do about it?" I narrow my eyes at her and lean back against the wall, crossing my arms.

"Ground you," she says firmly. "No leaving the house and no TV for a week."

"Whatever." It's what I expected she might say. I'll just paint.

"And I've had all your painting supplies taken away."

Now _that_ I did not expect.

"W-What?" I manage. I'm not stuttering from shock; I'm stuttering from horror and _anger._ How _dare_ she take away my paintings, my supplies, the things that I do everyday for a living? How _dare_ she fucking steal them from me?

"You heard me. Your father hid them all away last night, in fact," Mrs. Macken says smugly. She seems satisfied; finally, here's something that means enough to me to make me react.

_Anger… no, fury! Furyfuryfuryfuryfuryfury…_

I kick my foster mother in the shin so that she gasps and steps back, and then I'm flying through the hall to my room, banging the door open to see—

Emptiness. Everything is gone. My art supplies on my desk are gone, making the desk look bare and forlorn. The paintings have been stripped from the walls, all of them; the weird ones of me, and the gloved hands reaching out, and the roses turned black, and the little boy with dark grey hair. Even the paintings of Claude.

All of them, everything, annihilated.

I'm shaking so hard that my fingers aren't working, but I force them to pick up my lamp and throw it across the room. It lands against the wall with a _thud_ and a _pop_ as the light bulb explodes and shattered glass showers on the ground. I'm so angry that I don't even notice the pain as I kneel beside it, tiny slivers of glass embedding themselves in my skin, and tear the lampshade off, ripping it and tossing the pieces away from me. Then I stand up and punch the only window in my room, a tiny little thing that slices my knuckles and makes bright red blood trickle down the length of my arm.

"J-Jamie! Stop that at once!" Mrs. Macken stands at the doorway, pale and shocked. She notices the blood. "You're hurting yourself!"

"No!" I spit. "You already hurt me too much to feel anything else. This?" I bury my hand in the pile of glass on the floor, feeling nothing but hot, wet blood running through my fingers. "It means nothing. Just numbness. It's almost a fucking _relief_ after this." I take my desk in my hands and use all my strength to fling it at her, but it only flips over onto its side.

"Jamie! Jamie! Stop, please! Stop this!" She's sobbing, her hands trembling as she raises them to hide her face or wipe away her tears—I don't know which, because at that moment I barrel into her and shove her away from me.

"Get out of my fucking way," I snarl at her.

She's staring at me in fear and calling out for her husband. "George! George, come here!"

Mr. Macken runs out of the bathroom with a robe on, his short grey hair still wet. He sees me and gasps. I can just imagine myself standing there, breathing hard and fists clenched, blood gushing onto the floor. My cold blue eyes are like pieces of ice and they're feral, wild to a degree where I almost don't look human. The end of my tongue is sticking a bit out of my mouth between my teeth, as if I wish I could bite it off and spit it at them.

For a moment, even I am scared of myself.

Lucas peeks around the corner of the living room and looks at me worriedly. "Jamie, you're bleeding!"

Captain Obvious.

But then Lucas runs over to me and hugs me by the waist, completely catching me off guard, and my sarcastic thoughts fade away. Lucas doesn't realize that I'm a monster. He still loves me, unlike the two adults who are gaping at me, aghast.

"Lucas," Mr. Macken says sharply, as if to warn him to stay away.

"Dad, why did you take away Jamie's paintings?" Lucas is angry now, too, but when he's angry, he never gets violent. He just gets what I like to call scary-calm, like thin ice: cold and smooth but ready to break any moment.

"He got into trouble at school. I thought it might be a suitable punishment," Mr. Macken explains. "He'll get over it."

Lucas frowns. "They're really important to him. You shouldn't have taken them away."

"Lucas," Mrs. Macken begins to say, sighing, but I barge past her. I pause at the door and look back at them, at the red stains on the carpet from my red blood and the glint of broken glass in my room.

"I'm leaving," I say coldly to them. "Don't fucking try to find me because I won't come back."

"Jamie, don't leave!" Lucas looks like he's going to cry.

"You could come with me, Luc." My voice softens. "If you wanted to."

"No," Mr. Macken immediately says. "I forbid him to go with you."

I go up to Lucas and whisper in his ear so that our foster parents can't hear, "I have to go, but I'll be back for you, okay, dude? Just hang in there. I'm leaving them, not you."

Lucas nods, an almost imperceptible movement of his head. "See you, Jamie," he whispers back.

And then I'm swinging the back my little brother gave me over my shoulder and running out the door, down the porch steps, down the deserted streets. I don't look back once, but I know what I'll see. I'll see our foster parents standing by the door, my little brother struggling against them but being held back from following me. I'll see a trail of red blood spattered on the road after me, following me, haunting me all the way away from that house. Just like Claude.

**~o~**


	5. Ice

_Finally, another update! Sorry for the long wait; I've been having writer's block. I'm not quite sure about this chapter… but I do know that I got hungry writing it, as you will probably see once you start reading it. ;) It's a longer chapter, too. If you like it, please review! I want to know what people think._

_Warnings: Jamie's language (I'm really tired of saying that every chapter). Blood. And someone acting Alois/Grell-like (I can't decide which one is worse)._

_Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji._

**5. Ice**

The first thing I do is find an isolated corner on one of the streets and go through Lucas's bag. He's packed a blanket, extra socks and underwear, a photograph of the two of us at a beach, some food and water—he must have stocked up on chips and skittles and granola bars for months to be able to have saved this much—a pack of Band-Aids, and a large pouch that jingles when I lift it. I open it and see shiny coins and wrinkled bills.

Money. All of Lucas's money from all the allowances he has received ever since our foster parents have taken us in. He's given every last penny to me. There must be at least a couple hundred dollars in here.

Tears well up in my eyes, threatening to spill. I take the photograph and carefully smooth it out, resting my finger on the younger Lucas's cheek. He's grinning as usual, but his bright eyes fixed on me in adoration. I have an arm around him, pulling him close, but I'm not smiling. Instead I'm staring into the distance; my pale blue eyes aren't icy but aren't warm either, and my fingers are holding onto Lucas's shoulder as if for balance, like he's the only thing keeping me from falling. He is the only one.

I don't let myself cry. Lucas has never seen me cry. He believes I'm too strong for that. I have to believe that I'm strong, too. I'll come back for him, but for now I have to find a place where we can be safe.

And I have to take care of the blood that's still seeping from the cuts all over my hands and arms. I'd forgotten about it, but now it's starting to hurt. A lot.

I try to wipe it away, but that only smears it everywhere. With a sigh, I stuff my hands into my pockets and hope that no one notices the blood on my sleeves, at least until I can find a bathroom to wash up in.

A few blocks later, I see a coffee shop and walk in, ducking my head down in hopes to be inconspicuous, but I see the cashier narrowing his eyes at me until I disappear into the bathroom. Once there, I put my hands under the tap, cringing at the icy cold water, and watch as the blood swirls down the drain with now pink-tinted water. I pluck out some slivers of glass that are stuck, but others are too small and I just leave them there. I dry my arms gingerly, because of the paper towel is rough and hurts when it rubs against my skin. Then I grab the pack of Band-Aids that Lucas conveniently packed for me and slap them on everywhere, trying to cover as many of the cuts as I can and not bothering to take a closer look. I know it's bad, and I'd rather not see how deeply my skin has been sliced open. A voice in the back of my mind tells me that I'll need stitches if I want my wounds to heal properly.

I tell the voice to shut up and then I admire my handiwork.

It doesn't look very good at all. It looks like a mess of bandages and dots of fresh blood that's still seeping from the cuts. My skin has been sliced everywhere and I couldn't cover it all. I saved about half the pack—I'm not stupid, and I want to have some in case of an emergency later—but now I'm reconsidering and thinking that maybe I can just make two glove-like things on each of my hands made entirely from Band-Aids. And I can always go to a convenience store to get more if I need to.

After finishing with my injuries, I wash my face because it's grimy, not that it's ever bothered me before. I just want to look as decent as I can for as long as I can. Eventually, though, my clothes will stink and my hair will be too greasy and everyone who looks at me will _know_ that I'm a runaway, and then the police and questions will be involved. I'd like to put that off for as long as possible.

Outside, it's started to drizzle. It's more of a damp mist than any rain, but it still makes my hair soggy and stick to my forehead. I wonder where I can go. A car zooms past me through a puddle and dirty brown water sprays through the air, showering over me.

So much for looking clean.

I don't want to stay here, in this lonely neighbourhood, or go downtown either. I want a place where I can feel safe and rest for awhile.

With that in mind, I stick my thumb out at the passing cars until one slows to a stop and I hop in.

"Where do you need to go?" an old man asks me wearily, as if he's picked up so many hitchhikers in his life that it's becoming an old thing.

"Away from here," I say. "Any fucking place away from here."

And he must see the pain in my eyes, because he doesn't question me. He just nods and starts the car, the hum of the engine like a lullaby that soon lulls me into a deep sleep.

_Sleep is a wonderful thing,_ I think just before slipping away. I like sleep. You can escape in sleep and time will slip away blissfully fast without you even noticing it go by until it's gone. And also, sleep opens to the gates to my happy place.

So that's where I go now.

**~o~**

My happy place hasn't changed except that now it's night and I'm standing at the steps to the mansion. When I look over my shoulder I can see the garden, but it looks dark and unwelcoming compared to the mansion with the windows glowing yellow and the sounds of people laughing and talking inside.

I walk up the steps with a group of men, feeling self-conscious because they're all dressed in fancy coats and skin-tight pants while I'm in my bloodied hoodie and draying jeans, but they don't seem to notice me. The door swings open and a butler invites us in. At first I don't recognize him. Then I realize who it is but by the time I spin around to confront him, Claude is already lost in the sea of people.

People are _everywhere_. Lords and ladies dance wherever I look. The gentlemen are clad in breeches and posh velvet jackets and ties, the ladies in fine dresses that are all lace and pearls and rustling skirts. They elegantly sweep past me, taking no more notice of me than if I were a fly.

I look around the rest of the room. It's grand with a high, vaulted ceiling from which hangs a chandelier that sparkles like crystal-cut teardrops. To the sides are two spiralling staircases that lead up to the next, the polished banisters gleaming in the faint light. I try to imagine sliding down one; it would be all wind and exhilaration and the feeling that any moment, I would go flying.

At the back of the room, an orchestra plays, the violins and harps and trumpets all blending into a melody that makes me want to join the dancers. Pushed against the walls are long tables covered with lacy tablecloths that hold more food than I've ever seen on a table in my life: lamb with rice and steamed vegetables; seafood chowders; a rainbow variety of soups with exotic spices that release tempting scents into the air; platters of ribs and beef and other meats with sweet sauces; every imaginable kind of spicy curry; baskets of multigrain and cheesy and Italian loaves of bread with the crusts cracked open to reveal the soft white insides; brightly coloured salads filled with crisp vegetables and fresh fruit; pastries coated with sticky honey and sugar and nuts, filled with jelly and cream; huge bowls of spaghetti with meat balls and different dressings. Everything and anything edible can be found at those tables, I'm sure. To top it off, servers stand around the room offering pitchers of fruit punch and delicate glasses of wine as well as slivers of cake with dollops of whipped cream.

Whoever cooked all this must have a lot of time on their hands. I saunter over to a table and proceed to pluck all the blackberries off the pastries and pop them in my mouth. When we were younger, our foster parents would take Lucas and I to pick wild blackberries. More ended up in our stomachs than our buckets, and we would always go home with our pails sadly empty but out bellies satisfyingly full. I pick up a blackberry and examine it, the little seeds and the glistening dark purple colour so familiar from those days.

I'm not quite sure what my purpose here is, so for now I just take it all in. Here's a couple in the corner who have had too much to drink and who are making out with each other very nicely. There a mother scolds her son for eating too many pastries and getting jam all over his expensive clothes. And _there_ is Claude.

He's standing beside a boy who looks to be my age. With a start, I realize that it's the boy from my paintings—the one with the icy blue eyes like mine and the silly purple jacket and oversized black bow. He's thin and tall and his booty shorts show off his nice thighs. He's lounging, leaning against the wall carelessly and sucking distractedly on his little finger. His white-blond hair is dishevelled, as if he couldn't care less about his appearance. Claude is speaking to him, but the boy isn't really listening. His pale blue eyes are scanning the crowd, passing over me without a second glance. Looking for someone.

Claude looks up, too, and his gaze falls on me with a jolt.

I guess he didn't realize that it was _me_ he let in.

Claude says something to the boy, excusing himself, and then strides towards me. His tail coat flaps around his ankles like the wings of a crow. He frowns when he sees me picking out all the blackberries. At the clap of his gloved hands, a servant appears and then runs off to do his bidding. The servant returns with a bowl full of fresh berries and hands them to Claude. He dismisses the servant and then proceeds to replace the blackberries I ate with quick, precise movements.

I scowl. Claude is such a damn perfectionist. It's fucking irritating. Just to annoy him back, I pluck a strawberry out from a tart this time and wait to see his reaction.

But Claude only puts a new strawberry in its place.

I push away the disappointment and eye Claude. "What are you doing here? You a servant?" From the look of his uniform, he's the head butler of the house.

Claude nods. Then he begins slicing a chocolate cake into pieces.

"Huh." For a while, I can't think of anything more intelligible to say. My eyes go back to the boy whom Claude was talking to before. He's conversing with the guests now, mingling and sipping at a glass of yellow champagne. Suddenly he bursts out laughing, and I'm shocked into stillness because his laughter is bubbly and girly, just like mine. Crazily like mine.

Claude's golden eyes follow my gaze and his lips twitch as if he's hiding a smile.

"Who is that?" I demand, overcome with curiosity. I don't expect him to answer—as usual—so I'm shocked even more when he does.

"He is the host of this party," Claude says. "Earl Alois Trancy."

I freeze. Claude has a nice voice; it's all rich and deep, like velvet. And I can swear that I've heard it before somewhere.

"_Claude, never leave me." Clinging to him, not letting him go. Pain flashing in my eyes. Don't go. _

"_Yes, your Highness."_

Alois Trancy. I like his name; it's more interesting different instead of plain Jamie Macken. But right now my interest in Alois Trancy disappears from the shock of learning that Claude is capable of speech.

"Y-you can talk," I stutter.

"Yes." Then he mutters something under his breath about sacrifices, which I don't understand.

"What?"

"Nothing," Claude says too quickly. He takes a wine glass and, to distract me, asks, "Would you care for something to drink?" When I nod, he pours me some fruit punch and puts it on the table for me.

I keep my hands hidden in the sleeves of my hoodie and carefully pick up the glass, only letting the tips of my fingers peek out. I take a sip and choke. It's bittersweet and fruity, but burning my throat on the way down. It makes this warm feeling appear in the middle of my chest.

Claude notices my reaction. "Does it displease you?"

"I didn't know it had alcohol in it," I say. "It surprised me."

"I can get you something else, if you'd like," he offers.

"No." I wrap my fingers tightly around the glass and take another sip. It really _does_ damn burn, but I like it. Even if it makes me a bit light-headed.

Claude begins arranged a platter of tarts: strawberry in the middle, butter pecan on the outside. Then he moves on to slicing another cake. I watch his methodical movements, each one so precise and perfect. Every piece of cake is the same size, every cookie a perfect circle. His hands are elegant, his fingers long and thin in their spotless white gloves.

I finish my drink and then stand awkwardly still holding the glass, unsure what to do with it. I'm dizzy from the alcohol and I have the urge to cough, but I lean on one of the tables casually. "What should I do with my glass?"

He looks up. "I'll take it," he says.

I reach out to give it to him and as I do, the sleeve of my hoodie hitches up to reveal my bandaged arms and hands. Blood has soaked through the Band-Aids. It hurts like hell.

Claude's eyes widen slightly and he gently takes my arm with his other hand and sets the glass on the table. "You're hurt," he says in concern.

My heart flutters dramatically at his touch, but I pretend that it doesn't. I try to pull away from him, but his grip tightens and I gasp in pain. Immediately he loosens his hold on my arm, but not enough for me to escape.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, his golden gaze troubled. "I didn't mean to cause you pain. But this looks serious."

"It's fine," I say defensively.

Claude doesn't look convinced. "How were you injured?"

"Glass," I mutter, glaring at him. "I broke a window and sliced up my hand." Well, that's not all I did. First I threw a lamp across the room. Then I broke a window, but after I also drove my hand into the pile of sharp glass shards on the ground just to show my foster mother how little I cared. And I threw a table at her.

But Claude doesn't need to know any of that.

"I can help you." He firmly guides me away from the ballroom with all the people and Alois Trancy. I glance over at him and see Alois looking quizzically at Claude, but Claude doesn't even notice.

Out in the spacious corridor, he pulls me to a sparkling-clean washroom that's bigger than my bedroom at home and orders me to sit down on the edge of the gleaming bathtub.

I sit. Claude carefully peels off the dirty Band-Aids, and I bite my tongue to keep from gasping at the pain. The taste of blood fills my mouth.

My hands are a red, enflamed mess. Sliced skin flaps sickeningly apart, revealing pink muscle underneath. The cuts go past my wrist from when I drove my fist through the window and pulled it out. Fresh, hot blood trickles down my fingers.

For the first time, fear writhes in my gut. This is bad. Even I can tell that.

Claude runs a cloth under cold water and then dabs at my wounds, cleaning them. I try not to cringe. No matter how many times he wipes the blood away, though, new blood appears.

Panic sets in. It's not bleeding as heavily anymore, but the amount of it on the floor scares me. I must be running out of it by now—that must be why it's slowing down. _Fuck_, I'm running out of blood!

I start to hyperventilate, my breath coming too quickly. My knees are knocking together they're shaking so hard.

Claude pauses and kneels down beside me, resting his hands on my shoulders. "Mast—I mean, Jamie, stop this. Take a deep breath. You will be all right." His face is so close to mine that I can see every fleck of amber and brown in his gold eyes, and his dark lashes are thick and long.

I want to touch them.

"I promise, you will be all right, but you must calm down first."

I can't. I try, I really do, but the sight of all the blood disturbs me. My teeth are chattering now and I'm really dizzy—except that now I don't know if it's from the drink or from my nerves.

"I'll take care of you. These wounds aren't fatal." Claude focuses on my hands again, using a tiny pair of tweezers to pull out the little slivers of glass that I missed.

I take a deep breath and slowly manage to calm down as he nurses me. His touch is familiar. Everything about him is so familiar it's strange.

"Some of these need stitches," he says.

I figured as much. "Whatever. Do what you need." I turn my head, not wanting to watch him sew my skin together.

He glances up at me and takes in my pale face, my huge eyes. "I could knock you out if the pain is too much. It will be over when you wake up."

"But this is a dream." I laugh harshly. "When I wake up, it won't be here. There's no point." Then another thought crosses my mind. "How can it hurt so much if this is a dream? It feels so real. Tell me, Claude."

A strange look crosses his face. "Not a dream," he says quietly as he threads a needle. I don't look as he begins stitching, even though it hurts like a bitch.

"Then what?"

"A memory."

"How can I have memories of a fucking place I've never been to and of people I've never seen before?" I demand. "And how come I've been painting them? You and Alois…"

Claude smirks, but doesn't answer that.

After he's done stitching and has finished taking care of my hands, I look down at them. He's bandaged my hands and wrists with soft white fabric, tight enough to put pressure on the cuts but not tight enough to cut off my circulation. It's beautiful compared to the mess before.

I've never say thank you before, but for some reason now I do. He stands in front of me and I lean forwards to pluck some invisible lint off his jacket.

"Thanks," I giggle and trace my finger down the jacket, feeling yummy muscles underneath. He obviously works out. I wish he would take off his shirt. "You were very helpful."

"It was the least I could do," he replies. Amusement sparks his gaze and he suddenly adds, "I am simply one hell of a butler." He seems very entertained to be saying that for some reason.

_One hell of a butler… Yes, my lord… Your Highness…_

I shake away the voices and say teasingly, "One _sexy_ hell of a butler."

Claude stiffens, but I'm already pulling his gloves off his hands, finger by finger, until they fall to the ground. His hands are even nicer without the gloves. I notice that his nails are black, as if painted with nail polish.

Claude, wearing _nail polish?_ I giggle again. He's so emo, dressed in black with his black nails and black hair.

"Oh, Claude." I feel woozy and ecstatic as I grin at him. "You're so sexy."

"Stop this."

I pull his jacket off his unyielding body and that ends up crumpled on the ground, too. Underneath, he's wearing a white button-up dress shirt. I tug at it and the buttons pop off and scatter across the ground. His chest _is_ nice, pale like snow except that his abs are hard, so more like ice.

"I said stop it." Claude catches me by the wrists and holds me, gently so as not to hurt me. His grip is still like steel, though, and I can't break away.

I bend my neck and kiss each of his knuckles, pausing teasingly at the last one to let my tongue flick out and brush his skin. I raise my eyebrows at him and tilt my head to look up at him; his face is impassive, his eyes hard behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Why?" I whisper. I want to do this. I don't want to stop.

"Because," Claude says, "you're drunk. I shouldn't have given you a cocktail with so much alcohol in it. You're too young."

"No, I'm not too young," I say, offended. "And I'm not drunk either. At least, I don't think so." Then I burp and give him a lopsided grin, giggling. "Oops. S'cuse me."

I try to kiss Claude's hands again, but he releases me so quickly that one might've thought I'd burned him with my lips. I frown at him.

"Stop that," I whine plaintively. When I move forwards, he backs away until he's pressed against a wall. I lean onto his chest and touch his neck. Blue veins throb under his skin and I trace one of them with my finger, all the way up to his square jaw. I kiss it.

"Jamie. This is not what you want." His voice has gone all flat now and emotionless. The concern that had been in it before, even the amusement, has disappeared.

He's taller than me, but I stand on my tiptoes, grab his head in between my hands and force it to bend so I can glare right into his eyes. "How do you know?"

"You are intoxicated." Claude doesn't resist when I kiss his throat, but I can feel that his muscles are stiff. He sure as hell isn't enjoying it, either.

I grin. "Really?" I laugh, burp and laugh again. "Maybe I should always get drunk if it feels this good. It does feel good, doesn't it, Claude?"

He doesn't answer, but he tolerates me as I dig my fingers into his hair and lick his cheek. He tastes like ice, too: cold and flavourless.

Then I hear the door burst open. I stumble away from Claude and see the intruder. Alois Trancy.

"What are you doing here, Claude?" Alois demands, his ice-blue eyes wide. "You're supposed to be at the party, not looking at yourself in a mirror." He doesn't even seem to notice me. He grins suddenly. "I didn't know you enjoyed admiring yourself. How vain. You're so weird, Claude. Have I ever told you that before?"

I take an immediate liking to Alois and silently agree with him.

"I apologize, Master." Claude bends over and picks up his jacket and gloves.

"I couldn't find them," Alois continues. "Ciel and his stupid butler aren't anywhere! I was certain that he was going to come and that his letter declining my invitation was a trick, but I guess that it wasn't." He slumps, disappointed.

"We will find him, Master." Claude speaks with ease around Alois, not the jerky, stiff replies that I get. His voice is soft, seducing. "Day into night, sugar into salt, living to dead, and dark blue into gold. I will help you to obtain Ciel Phantomhive. That's what makes a Trancy butler."

"Do not fail me, Claude." Alois's voice has turned cold now.

Claude doesn't even look at me as he walks past and kneels in front of Alois. "Yes, your Highness," he whispers.

**~o~**


	6. Yellow

_Okay, I am SO, SO sorry for the long wait! I've been really busy and have had writer's block and I had no idea how to write this chapter, so it took a long time! I promise, it won't ever take that long again (hopefully)._

_I hope you haven't forgotten Jamie or the rest of the story and will enjoy this chapter… weird as it is… I don't really like it, but oh well. It's the best I could do._

_Warnings: Profanity and Jamie's fantasies about murdering Claude._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji._

**6. Yellow**

"Yes, your Highness…"

I'm frozen in my spot, staring wide-eyed as Alois smiles and oh-so-casually sweeps a hand through Claude's silky hair, almost caressing him.

Then my nausea overcomes me, and suddenly convulsions force me to double over and puke all over the sparkly marble tiles of the bathroom floor. I fall to my hands and knees, still barfing. The vomit burns like hell all the way up; it's probably the alcohol I drank at the party.

Alois doesn't notice a thing, but Claude's face has twitched every so slightly and his expression cuts my heart to pieces. It's an expression of disgust, the way one would look at a maggot writhing on the ground.

"Claude," I croak. "Help… me." Because he knew what to do before, when my hands were hurting, and now I'm retching so much that I think I might just puke out my entire stomach.

Claude stands up and says to his master, "I will join you at the festivities, but please give me a moment to prepare."

Alois traces his abs, just like I had done so recently. "Couldn't you just come to the party like this?" he asks teasingly. "I'm sure the guests would greatly appreciate it."

Claude doesn't answer, only move away and begins picking up the buttons that are scattered across the floor.

"Fine, then, Claude," Alois finally relents. "Go ahead. But don't be too slow!" He turns on his heel and leaves the bathroom, the tail of his purple jacket fluttering behind him.

Claude retrieves the rest of his buttons and then kneels beside me. He hesitates and then touches my back. "Jamie?"

I cringe away, feeling tears gather in my eyes. His rejection hurts me more than I expected in this dream world, and I have no idea why. I used to hate Claude, or so I thought.

"Jamie, I'm sorry. No one but I can see you. I couldn't let my master know that you were here."

"Why can't anyone else see me?" I demand hoarsely.

"This is a memory. You are from another time. I am in both times, so only I have the ability." Claude doesn't explain any more. Instead he takes a glass full of water and gives it to me to clean out my mouth. I spit onto the ground, trying to rid my mouth from the sour taste of vomit.

He calls a servant and has them clean up the mess in the washroom without giving an explanation as to why he has no shirt on and why there's vomit all over the floor. Meanwhile, I follow him to his room in the servants' quarters, where he gets a new shirt (with buttons) and puts it and his jacket back on. I look around the room while he does that, taking it in. It's plain and tidy, with not one single thing that portrays what his personality might be like. The drapes at the window are black, as are the bed sheets and duvet. The furnishings are polished brown wood. There are no little trinkets or decorations.

Once he is dressed suitably again, I trail after Claude back to the party. It's still in full swing, but now the dancers have broken away and people are just mingling and talking. Alois stands in the center of the room with a thunderous expression on his face, scowling. When he sees Claude, his expression brightens and he begins striding over.

"Time for you to go," Claude murmurs to me. He ushers me to the door and opens it for me. "We'll see each other again, Jamie, don't worry. But for now…" He glances back at Alois again. "You should leave. Fall asleep and when you wake up, you'll be back where you were before."

"But…"

But Claude is gone, back to Alois. _Yes, your Highness…_ He dips his head regally and dutifully follows Alois away.

I narrow my eyes. If Alois is Claude's master, then that makes him my rival. My enemy. Claude belongs to me.

Then I wonder where that thought came from.

Then it doesn't matter anymore, because I wake up.

**~o~**

I'm in a car. The old man who drove me around is shaking my shoulder.

"Boy," he says gruffly. "Get out of the car."

Dizzy and disoriented, still half in my dream world, I stumble out the door and the car drives away quickly, leaving me with a cloud full of dust and exhaust and hot air that blows into my face. Then it's gone.

He's dropped me off at a gas station. I have no clue where I am. I can hear the sound of a radio coming from inside the station, so I go inside. The door chimes when I enter. The man at the till, a hairy old guy with a baseball cap and a smoker's cough, glowers at me and then goes back to playing some game on his cell phone.

"Excuse me," I say.

He begins frantically pushing buttons on his game. From the noises, he's trying to shoot something and it's not working.

_Pew-pew-pew-pew-pew. Boom._

"Hellooo," I say, waving a hand in front of his face.

His hands are shaking as he tries to kill whatever monster in the game.

Screw it all.

"ARE YOU FUCKING LISTENING TO ME?" I yell and pick up a bottle of Dr Pepper, slamming it down on the counter hard.

The game wails and I catch a glimpse of the words 'Game Over' before he's snapped his cell shut and shoves it into his back pocket. He glares at me sullenly.

"What?" he growls. He notices the bottle and scans it. "That'll be three dollars and sixteen cents."

I didn't actually want to buy it. I was just using it to get his attention. Oh, well.

I scrape change out of my pocket and put it on the counter. "Do you happen to have a map of this area?" I ask.

"That'll be another dollar and five cents," the man drones, holding a hand out expectantly.

"Fuck you," I say.

"I was just kidding. Chill," he snarls, handing me a folded map.

I show him my middle finger on my way out the door.

**~o~**

By the time I get back to the city, it's almost dark and I'm so tired that I feel like I'm asleep on my feet. My hands are starting to hurt again, too. Claude's stitches and bandages were all very nice, but even if they stopped the bleeding, they don't take away the pain.

I stumble to my house and am surprised to find the door locked for what must be, oh, the first time in ten years. Are they trying to keep me out? Yeah, right.

I go around the side to the window by the bathroom, which is always left open a crack (to air out the stink inside). Scrabbling up and in, I fall none-too-gracefully onto the floor with a loud noise.

"Jamie?" a voice calls. "Is that you?"

Shit. My foster parents are home. I forgot that it's a Saturday. I thought that they would still be out—Mrs. Macken at her night shift in the restaurant, Mr. Macken at some pub with his other guy friends.

Mr. Macken comes and sees me lying awkwardly in the bathroom. "James," he says. "Come to the living room." He turns and leaves without waiting to see if I'll follow.

Something's wrong. My foster father has never looked so dishevelled before. He hasn't shaved and his eyes are wild, bloodshot.

I go to the living room and stop short at the sight of Mrs. Macken on the couch, sobbing. Her tangled hair is greasy and there are dark circles imprinted in the hollows under her eyes. Her nose is bright red from crying.

"Wha…" I blink as I survey the scene. "Wh-what happened?"

Silence.

Then another thing hits me. "Where's Lucas?"

"Gone," Mr. Macken says roughly.

What?

Mrs. Macken lets out a wail and starts crying again, snotting all over herself. Mr. Macken holds her hand comfortingly and says things like, "It's all right, dear," and "He'll be okay".

"No, he _won't _be okay!" My breath is too fast, my head spinning. "Not if he's gone! What do you mean?"

"He just disappeared. The police are investigating," Mr. Macken says. "I'm sure they'll find him." But he doesn't sound certain.

That's when it sinks in. Lucas is gone. _My_ Lucas. The one person that I've ever loved and who might have ever loved me back.

I break down into sobs, sinking down into my knees. Nothing makes sense. My thoughts are jumbled, smeared with grief, and I feel like I'm going to explode. I need to let it out. Opening my mouth, I look up at the ceiling and scream for as long as I possibly can. Mrs. Macken cringes and Mr. Macken covers his ears, looking at me in disgust.

"How?" I scream. "How can he be gone? Lucas!" I force myself to my feet and run through the house to his room, flinging open the door. "Lucas? Lucas! Where are you?" I frantically look around the rest of the house, calling his name.

My screams fade to whimpers and I return to the living room, shaking. "Lucas, I need you," I whisper to the empty air. "Where are you?"

Mrs. Macken chokes on a sob.

I whirl to face her. "Mommy, how could you let him go? How? You've already taken so much away from me—now I have _nothing!_" I've never called her 'Mommy' in my life.

"Jamie, I," she begins.

"Shut up!" I yell. "I don't wanna hear it! I don't wanna hear any of it! Just leave me and Lucas alone!" I'm crying so much that I can't even see. Everything is a blur around me: the couch, the painting on the wall, their pained faces. I stumble away in what I think is the direction of the door and slip out.

I hear them calling my name behind me, but I don't listen. I run through the streets, still calling Lucas's name. I run until I'm tired and I yell until my throat is hoarse. I end up sprawled on the ground at a shady corner, my knees skinned. I look down at the loose shoe laces I tripped on.

"Jamie."

My blurry eyes travel from my shoe laces to a pair of shiny black dress shoes. The shoes are connected to legs in black trousers. I look up: a torso in a black suit, a neck, a face with gold eyes and black-rimmed glasses. A familiar face.

"Claude," I whisper.

He helps me to my feet. "Are you all right?" He sounds concerned.

"No, I—" My mind reels again from the shock of it: Lucas is gone, Lucas is gone, Lucas is gonegonegone. My knees give way and Claude catches me when I fall again. Unable to stand on my own feet, I lean against him for support while I cry.

_Terror! Run! The flames are eating everything… Everything is completely annihilated, obliterated! I'm elated, but no, there's a body lying on the ground there… it's Luca… Luca… dead?_

"No!" I scream. "Luca… _Lucas_ isn't dead! That's someone else! It has to be!"

"Jamie," Claude says, taking me by the shoulders. "It's a memory, just another memory. Ignore it. Focus on your surroundings."

But I'm too deep in the terror to be able to understand what he's saying.

_Dead… dead… dead? Lucas—no, Luca—Lucas—Luca—LucasLucaLucasLuca… His warm brown eyes suddenly so cold, so washed out, so empty as they stare vacantly up at me. I shake him, trying to shake life back into him. "Luca, talk to me! Breathe! Don't leave me alone!" The flames roar around me, hissing and sputtering, dancing in Luca's hollow eyes as they devour my village and my life…_

"You're at the corner on Martin Street. I'm beside you. It's evening, cooling off now. Focus." His voice is like a lifeline and if only I could grab it, I could drag myself out. I gasp for air, drowning on dry land. Claude's gloved fingers dig into my arms, but the pain doesn't register…

_The pain in my heart is going to make me explode. No, no, no, not dead… Help me! Then everything… dizzy, blurry. And she's there, the maid, her one grey-violet eye watching me tenderly, the other hidden by a bandage. Han…nah? Hannah, and then there's Claude beside her… And it's THEM! THEIR FAULT! She took Luca, and he knew about it all along and never told me!_

"Jamie. Jamie. Jamie. Listen to me—to my voice. This is real. What you're seeing now is not. Come on, come back to me."

The visions fade away and my eyes focus on Claude's face. Square jaw, tensing. Perfect white skin sculpted from ice. Butterscotch-gold eyes, wary and worried behind his glasses. Tousled black hair.

"_Yes, your Highness." Bowing before me, my pawn and sword to be moved into checkmate. But even that loyalty can't compare to what… to who… was taken… away…_

And a tide of rage carries _me_ away.

"You!" I snarl, slapping him on the cheek. He recoils in surprise, and I thrash out of his arms and begin pummelling his chest with punches and slaps. His chest is hard as rock and my knuckles are soon sore, but I don't care. I just keep hitting and hitting him as if that will take the pain away. Panting, I take another swing at his head, but he ducks and then catches my wrists firmly. His thin hands are still huge compared to mine and wrap all the way around my wrists, like manacles that are impossible to break free from.

I kick his shin and then shove my knee into his crotch, hoping it will hurt enough to make him let go of my arms, but Claude barely reacts. He only looks at me with that soft concern and says nothing, waiting for my anger to die out.

It doesn't.

"Fuck you, Claude," I whisper brokenly. "Lucas. You took Lucas. I know that it was you, or that you were involved with it. You didn't even try and stop it! _Fuck you!_"

"If I release your arms, will you run away before I can explain?" he asks quietly.

I want to say yes, just to show him how much I hate him and how little I care for his explanations. I want to say lie and say no, and then take off running as fast as I can just to get away. I want to say nothing and just let him figure it out for himself—fucking clever Claude; clever, beautiful Claude. I want to say everything and just tell him how lost I feel; how nothing in my life ever goes right and how now that Lucas is gone, I have no one left to live for.

I want to kiss him.

"Jamie?" He hesitates, his grip on my wrists loosening slightly, but just ever so slightly.

"I won't run away," I say, my voice hoarse. "Promise."

Claude immediately releases me and takes a step back.

And I run. I can't help it. I'm so angry at him for taking Lucas, _my_ Lucas, and I'm terrified of the feelings I feel when I look at him. I want to kiss him. And that's a problem, because I also don't want to kiss him. I'm not gay, or I never thought I was.

But Claude changes everything.

**~o~**

That night, I sleep on a bench in a park. It's cold, and the newspaper I've found for a blanket doesn't help at all. So this is how it feels to be homeless.

Being homeless fucking sucks.

I don't think night has ever seemed so long or unforgiving. I finally drift off with goose bumps on my skin and shivers up my spine, and it's a bland, dreamless sleep: no happy place. No nightmares, even.

In the morning, I go into a café and order a coffee, decaf. The cashier takes one look at my bedraggled appearance and hurries away into the kitchen to talk to someone, shooting me glances and then looking at the wall behind me.

I turn to see what he keeps staring at: a piece of paper with my picture on it. _MISSING: JAMES MACKEN, AGE 14_, the sign proclaims in bold red lettering. _PLEASE LET THE POLICE KNOW IF YOU SEE THIS CHILD._

Well, shit.

After quickly escaping from the café (hopefully before he's called the police), I ponder what to do.

An idea comes to mind the instant Claude approaches me.

I still hate him… a bit. But I'm definitely still angry with him, and resentful because he won't tell me about what he did with Lucas, but I need his help. My anger can wait.

"Claude, I need your help. Come with me!" I grab him by the arm and haul him away. I sneak into a convenience store, grab a box of bleach and hide it under the hoodie draped over my arm. Then I run into the bathroom, making sure to lock the door after Claude.

"What is it?" he asks seriously.

"How do you use bleach?" I consider the box. "Just dump it on my hair?"

"What are you attempting to do?" Claude pushes his glasses up.

"I want to dye my hair blond," I whine. "Really light blond. Help me, Claude."

He opens the box; it comes with a packet of powder, a comb, a little plastic mixing bowl and gloves. Claude puts the gloves on and mixes the powder with some water. "How much of it would you like bleached?"

"All if it, Claude." I grin. "Or at least down to my shoulders. The rest I'm going to cut off anyways."

Using a comb, he slicks the mixture onto my hair. His fingers are gentle, and I lean back so that they're pressing into my scalp.

"Don't move. Now we need to wait twenty minutes before washing it off." Claude steps away.

I step forwards and he mirrors it in the other direction. It's like trying to play tag with your own shadow; every step you take, it takes back. You can never get quite close enough to catch it.

"Stop playing with me, Claude. I'm wanted." I giggle uncontrollably. "By my foster parents and the police. Do you want me, too?"

He doesn't reply. He's so serious—serious eyes, serious voice. It makes me mad.

Someone stops outside the bathroom and tries the door. I'm glad that I remembered to lock it. I make a grunting sound, like I'm pushing, and there's the sound of their footsteps hurriedly retreating.

Claude is distracted, staring at the door, so I pounce on him and twine my fingers around his neck.

"I thought you hated me," he says.

"I did. I do. But I don't know." I cock my head, puzzled. "I'm so confused about how I feel, Claude. I'm angry and I hate you for stealing Lucas, but at the same time..." I trail off, unable to explain it. "I feel like I have two personalities. One is moody, sullen, hateful, angry, aggressive, rebellious. The other is all girly and bubbly and… hungry."

"Hungry?" One of his slender eyebrows arches up. "I can buy you lunch, if you'd like."

"Not in that sense." I grin and tickle his neck by fluttering my eyelashes against his skin—butterfly kisses. My tongue flicks out, tasting him. "You know what I mean, don't you? How I mean it when I say that I'm very, _very_ hungry."

Claude doesn't move away anymore, and he touches my back gently. He's changed back from his suit and tail coat, I notice, into a much more casual pair of dark trousers and a knit navy sweatshirt. And his hands are bare: no gloves. That makes his touch so much more intimate.

My heart flutters in my chest and I reach up to tuck a lock of his tousled hair behind his ear. My fingers move to his face, his glasses. I take them off him and look at him without them; he looks younger, more handsome without them, but not like Claude. I try them on, but they make me dizzy after a few moments, so I put them on the bathroom counter.

"Can you see without them, Claude?"

"I can see well enough past the counter," he answers. "But your face is a blur. I am far-sighted."

"Well, that's not good at all!" I exclaim. He needs to be able to see my face, so I put his glasses back on him. There; now Claude is Claude again, complete Claude.

"Thank you," he says formally. "Now your face is in focus."

I reach up and touch my eyelids, feel the tickle of my eyelashes. "You like my eyes, don't you, Claude?" I twist around to look at myself in the mirror. My hair is already lighter—it almost looks white with all the foam on it. My eyes are pale, too, such a light shade of blue that they're like ice.

They look like the eyes of Claude's master.

Hatred curls inside of me, like a rotting orange rind: sour and bitter. Why do I feel so… possessive of Claude? Why does the thought of Alois owning Claude make me want to punch something? I hate Claude. I know I do. He took my Lucas.

Claude steps away from me. "I believe your hair is ready to be washed now. Bend over the sink, please."

I do, and he turns on the tap and begins washing all the foam off. When he's done, he takes a bunch of paper towels and rubs my hair with them. It's still wet, but at least it isn't dripping everywhere. It's blond now, a very fair yellow.

I glare at him. "My hair's done now. You can go away."

Claude doesn't move.

I kick his shin. "I mean it!"

Talk about mood swings. One moment I'm all over him, trying on his glasses and flirting. The next I think I'm going to kill him.

And I will, too. It wouldn't be that hard. Just bash his head against the counter hard enough, or on the porcelain bowl of the toilet. Use my pocket knife and slide it between his ribs. Blood will gush out of the wounds, beautiful and scarlet, and gleam on the floor under the florescent lights. Claude will lie in the middle of that ocean of red, still like a broken doll. My broken doll, all mine.

I move closer to him, my hand already reaching for my knife. It will be so easy. I can already imagine the feel of the blade slicing through his hard muscles, hitting the bone and grinding against it.

Before I've even realized it, I've slashed blindly towards Claude. His arm is red, blood soaking through his sweater. Too bad I had to get that dirty. It was a pretty shade of blue.

"Leave me alone!" I yell at him.

Claude is still expressionless, even with his hand pressed against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. "Of course," he says. "I apologize. I'll be leaving you now." He unlocks the door and walks out. I bolt it behind him, breathing heavily.

Then I look in the mirror. The reflection I see is angry. My muscles are taut, my knife smeared with Claude's blood. I taste it, just to see what Claude tastes like, but it's only bitter and salty like my own. Boring.

I rinse it in the sink and watch red swirl down the drain. Then I take the now-cleaned knife and hack my hair off, shorter and shorter, until it just barely brushes my chin. It's too short to put back into my usual ponytail, but it's still long enough to tuck behind my ears. A couple locks fall across my forehead, into my eyes. I leave them that way—it looks cool.

**~o~**


	7. Purple

_I'm sorry for the long wait again. D: I don't like this chapter very much, either. I'm not doing my best writing; right now I'm basically just trying to get it finished before revising, editing, etc. Hope you guys enjoy it, though…_

_Warning: profanity_

_Disclaimer: Kuroshitsuji belongs to Yana Toboso alone_

**7. Purple**

My pretty hoodie is covered in dirt and blood, so I trash it and go to an Old Navy to look around for something decent to wear. I go to the girl's section, of course. It's not fair that girls always get the cutest clothes, while the baggy, dark, boring ones are left to the boys. I grab a couple of T-shirts, all in the brightest colours I can find: one fuchsia, with rhinestones making a floral pattern that trails down the side; the other bright emerald with a picture of a goofy cat sticking its tongue out on it. I also take a pair of skinny jeans with silver studs on the pockets and a pair of much-too-short-shorts.

A woman with a badge on her shirt that says that her name is _Stacy_ glares at me. "We're closing soon," she says irritably. "Don't take too long."

Whatever. My finger itches to flip her off.

In the dressing room, I try them on and admire myself in the mirror. The shirts and jeans are a little tight, but in my opinion that just makes my slender, almost feminine figure stand out more. Especially the shorts. They make my ass look curvy and beautiful, something I've never imagined my ass to be.

I walk out, satisfied, when I see _it_ hanging on a rack in the area where people discard all the shit they don't like. A long purple jacket with a stiff, pointed collar. I go back into the fitting room and try it on with the green shirt. The jacket goes down to a few inches above my knees, and the sleeves billow out a little around my wrists. It does _not_ look like something I would expect to see in Old Navy.

And I love it.

It's on sale, too. Ten bucks. It's my lucky day.

I leave Old Navy with a smile on my face, proudly wearing the jacket. I walk downtown, staring at my own reflection in the windows with the flickering lights. No one will be able to recognize me as the boy on the posters—not with my new hair, my new jacket. I look different. I look like…

Alois Trancy.

That makes me wonder. If Claude watching me now? Does _he_ think I look like Alois Trancy? Does he_ like_ it, my new hair and jacket and shirt? Not that I care, I tell myself. Of course I don't care what he thinks. But it might be interesting to know.

Since I'm a new person, I can do whatever I want, and suddenly I feel rebellious. I want to break the rules. What can I do that's illegal? I don't care for drugs, believe it or not, but maybe smoking. Smoking has always been forbidden to me. I could try that.

I wait at a bus stop and give a man standing beside me sideways glances. He's lighting a cigarette, the glowing amber tip the only colour in the fading dusk.

"Can I have one?" I ask.

He frowns and gives me an appraising look, taking in my sparkly too-tight jeans and shirt and the weird jacket, but lights one for me, too.

"How do I do this?" I stare at the burning cigarette in my hand, not quite sure. Do I just stick it in my mouth and suck?

An eyebrow shoots up. "This your first time? Ha," he laughs. But he shows me how to hold it in my hand and how to place it by my lips to inhale. It's bitter and stinking, but I try it. I burn myself the first time, which provokes a string of curses and "Oh, shit, oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_, that hurts!"

I finally get it after a few tries, and my eyes widen at the smoke that burns down into my lungs. I double over coughing. The man pats me back sympathetically and hands me a few more cigarettes.

"Just keep practicing. You'll get it eventually," he says to me, and them climbs onto the bus that's just arrived with a gust of hot air. It waits a few moments, but when I don't come in the doors swing shut and it rolls away.

I try smoking awhile longer, but each time the coughs get deeper, harsher, and I can't breathe properly. The stink fills my nostrils and makes my eyes water. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. The cigarette is slipping through my fingers, threatening to burn me again.

Then someone is reaching around me and taking the cigarette from me, and a hand starts to rub my back soothingly. I turn, about to tell the pedophile to fuck off, but am silenced by the golden eyes.

"You shouldn't be smoking," Claude says disapprovingly, continuing to rub my back as I cough. His touch eases them slightly. "It's not good for you."

"I don't—" _cough, cough_—"fucking—" _cough, cough_—"care." I stand up again, snatching for my cigarette back, but Claude lets it drop to the ground, where it hisses and the glow dies from the tip.

"I told you, you shouldn't smoke." He stares at me, his gaze neither patronizing nor worried, but there's _something_ in those eyes. Some emotion, I just can't put a name to it.

"I wanted to try something new," I pout. "Claude, help me. What can I try that's new?" A thought comes to mind. "How old do you have to be to get into a club?"

"Eighteen. You have to have ID."

"Screw ID!" I laugh gleefully. "You can find a way to sneak me in, can't you?"

He doesn't answer.

"Claaa-auuude," I whine, separating his name into two syllables. "I want to have fun. If you don't help me, I'll do it myself. I don't care whether it's a fucking good idea or not."

"There is a way," he finally says, lowering his eyes.

"Yes!" I punch the air. "Show me show me show me!" I grab his arm and swing it back and forth. It's like a swaying pendulum in one of those old grandfather clocks you sometimes see in antique shops.

Claude detangles himself from me and gives me a disapproving look, but then shrugs. "Fine. Let's catch the next bus."

He pays for my ticket, and we sit in the very back of the bus where all the smokers and druggies sit; I can smell their stink, and wrinkle my nose.

"Claaaaude," I say again, turning to him. "Do you notice anything different about me?"

He gives me a sideways glance. "Your hair," he says simply.

"You know about that already!" I snap. "What else?"

His eyes travel quickly down my body and then back up to my face, as if he doesn't like looking at it. That hurts—why doesn't he want to look at me? Am I that fucked up and ugly? I never thought I was ugly before. Sure, I'm not the most glamorous, but my eyes have always been beautiful, and with these shorts, my ass is too. Even _I_ know that.

"You bought new clothes."

I bounce in my seat excitedly. "Fuck yes, I did!" I exclaim, loud enough for a woman at the front of the bus to give me a _look._ I give her _the_ _look_ back. "Do you like them, Claude?"

"They're nice." His eyes narrow. "But you might get cold in those shorts… and they are quite short. Are you sure they're your size?"

I scowl, tears pricking at my eyes. "Of course they're my fucking size; they fit, don't they? You just don't like them!"

We spend the rest of the bus ride in silence.

Downtown, everything is shadows and pushy people and neon lights. Traffic crawls, and we get off at the second stop, the nearest to a club Claude knows about. I stare at the building apprehensively. A long line winds around the corner, and a bouncer by the doors is checking IDs and admitting people through. In the crack between the doors, I can see fluid, colourful lights swirling.

Claude leads me to a back alleyway and puts his hands together under a window. "Step up," he tells me. "I'll give you a boost."

I put one foot in his cupped hands and then push off. At the same time, he stands up. He's so tall that I can easily reach the window from here. He's strong, too; my weight seems to be nothing to him.

"I just crawl up?"

"Yes." Claude waits patiently for me. Then he climbs on top of a garbage bin and reaches up to break the window open for me. "Inside, it's a storage room. If you go out of it, that'll be the room used for the nightclub."

"Great! Thanks." I grin at him.

Claude jumps down neatly and starts walking away.

"Bye!" I shimmy down through the window and land with a plop inside the storage room right on top of a broom. "_Ow! Fucking broom!_" I swear, rubbing my backside. "Get the fuck out of my way," I tell the broom, kicking said offensive object away.

I push the closet door open and peer outside. I can see dark shapes everywhere: people dancing. There are so many people that it looks like a huge, writhing mass of shadows with no cracks of light anywhere except for in the ceiling, where strobes are flashing blindingly in magenta and acid green and blue.

My heart flutters. What will happen if I get caught? I don't look over eighteen. There's no way I can pass this off. What a fucking stupid idea this was. Well, I'll just have to make sure to stay away from the bar.

Once in the middle of the crowd, it's even worse. The air is stifling and hot, and my nose is filled with the stench of rancid sweat and various, overwhelming clouds of perfume. I'm jostled every which way until I finally back up in a corner. I shouldn't have worried about being caught; no one's noticing anything but their partners. People are making out everywhere: on the floor, by the bar, in the corners.

I find myself standing by a girl who looks way younger than eighteen. She's so tiny that she looks like an eight year old. How the fuck did _she_ get in, then? Probably sneaked in, too, except that probably she doesn't have someone to help her like Claude helped me.

With a start, I recognize her. It's Skye, the girl from my class. Immediately, a wave of unfamiliar memories rushes through my head.

_Blue eyes, sapphires glinting. Charcoal hair, ivory strands gleaming. "Finally, I have you! You're mine!" So tiny in my arms. I'm taller than him… no, her! It's a girl… right? No, a boy. A twelve year old boy, dressed in outlandishly fancy clothes and acting like a noble. Just an act. How fucking stupid, to act so superior when he's such a child._

I'm clenching my fists, staring at her. She feels my gaze and turns to me, and my insides melt at how intense her eyes are, and what a beautiful shade of blue they are, and how fucking long her eyelashes are. It's amazing they don't get tangled when she blinks.

"Hi," I say, and am surprised by how nice I sound. I'm not nice. But I sound like it.

She ignores me and turns away.

Well. She isn't nice either, and doesn't even bother to sound like it.

"HI!" I bellow at her, trying to be heard over the music.

This time, the look she gives me is pure acid. Rolling her eyes, she walks away. I follow. She stops and turns. I stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket and grin, trying to look all innocent.

"Stop following me," she says.

My heartbeat quickens at her voice—ah, it's so light and feminine and… arousing. My eyes widen at the feeling of the hardness between my legs. This has never happened to me before.

"Seriously. Leave me alone." She crosses her arms defensively. She's wearing a cute pink dress with frills and bows and lace. It would look old-fashioned, except that it's so short that it barely brushes her thighs. Her legs are white, paler even than mine.

"Why should I?" My breath is shallow as I step closer. A look of disgust crosses her face.

"Pedo," she mutters, and then sweeps away.

"Wait!" I call, hurrying after her. She's headed towards the storage room. Without thinking, I follow her in. Then I freeze. It's dark. I'm in a closet with a girl who's arousing me. We're both in a night club, the last place anyone would think to look for us.

Anything could happen.

I saunter towards her. She's trying to climb out the window, but she's too short to reach the top. She jumps up and down and then stamps a foot like a child have a temper tantrum, frustration etched across her face.

"Why don't you just go and have some more drinks and leave me alone?" she demands. She turns back to the window.

"Here." I cup my hands together, the way Claude did for me.

She glowers. "I _don't_ need your help." But she does, and she knows it.

I help her up onto the sill. Then, thinking to impress her, I move back and start to run forwards. I hop onto a cardboard box and use my momentum to leap into the air, hoping to jump high enough to land on the windowsill. I don't, but my fingers manage to snag the edge and I scramble up gracelessly. Well, there goes my fucking pride.

"What now?" I ask. "We're high up." I look out the window to the ground. If Claude were here, it'd be easy to get down: I'd just stand up here and he'd stand down there with his arms wide open, and I'd jump into them.

"You tell me. You're the one who got me up here." She scowls.

"Your name is Skye, right?"

She tenses up.

"You're in my class at school," I quickly say, not wanting her to think I'm a stalker or anything like that.

"I believe I'm at a disadvantage, then," Skye says stiffly. "You know my name, but I do not know yours."

She's such a fucking princess, with her British accent and noble bearing and the way she articulates every vowel oh-so-carefully. The difference is that a princess would never get caught wearing a dress so short, never mind getting into a situation where she's with a stranger in a storage room.

I look at her for a long moment, just admiring the way the faint light through the window turns her eyelashes to silver. It looks like someone took a paintbrush and _whoosh,_ just stroked them over the blue of her irises.

She clears her throat, still waiting. "Your name?"

I know her from _somewhere._ It's the same feeling I get from Claude. But hell, we're still strangers. She doesn't know who I am. This could be my chance to start again.

I stroke my purple jacket, as if to get courage for what about to say, and then I say it, but she doesn't hear it the first time.

Fucking princess, making me repeat myself. But this is my chance, so I take it. I say it again.

"Alois. My name is Alois Trancy."


	8. White

_Okay, this chapter I do like. :D Happy reading!_

_Warnings: Um, Jamie's profanity, and some sexual fantasies, etc._

_Disclaimer: I don't own Kuroshitsuji._

**8. White**

"Alois Trancy," she repeats, frowning.

"What? You think it's too weird?" I demand angrily.

Skye looks at me coolly, raising her eyebrows. "Don't get your panties in a twist," she says mockingly. Her eyes are cold and hard like blue bottle glass. "I don't care what your name is."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Are you stupid?" She stops and shakes her head. "Don't answer that. But it's _obvious._ If you're stalking me, I'm going to want to know your name so I can report you to the police."

"I'm not a stalker."

"Then why are you following me?"

"Because!" I shout. "I don't fucking know why. You seemed familiar."

"Well, now that you know that I'm _not_ the person you were looking for, you're free to leave." She pauses. "Whenever you like. For example, right now."

"You said whenever I like," I say dully. "That means not now."

"Oh, forget it. Just leave me alone from now on, all right?" She slides open the window and dangles her legs over the edge. Whoever's down there is getting a nice view.

"Wait, you'll break something if you try jumping. Let me down first!" Before she can answer, I'm crawling out. I reach out and wrap my hands around the gutter. If it works in the movies, there's no reason why it shouldn't now. Perilously, I edge my way down, finding cracks between the bricks to put my feet. My arms are aching; I don't have very strong muscles, and even this short climb is a challenge.

I look down at the ground below. It's not _that_ far away. I'm sure it won't kill me to jump. A sudden burst of rebellious wildness spreads through me. Without thinking twice, I close my eyes and let myself fly.

The impact with the ground sends bolts of lightning up both my ankles, and I prompt fall on my ass. "Shit, shit, ow, _fuck,_" I shout. "Fuck, fuck, shit, that _hurts._" I glare up at the window where Skye is calmly watching as if it's her fault I jumped. "Well, get on your stomach and dangle yourself or something. I'll help you down."

I can tell that she doesn't want to, but if she doesn't, she's stuck. So slowly she edges out on her stomach and lies so that her legs are just low enough for me to catch. I was right; it _is_ a good view. Her skirt has hiked up around her waist and I can see her underwear: pale and floral and white.

"If you're looking where I know you're looking, you're going to get _kicked,_" she calls down. I glance at her feet; she's wearing tall heels that look like they could cause some damage with my face if they happened to make contact.

"Whatever." I keep looking, though, letting my eyes trail up to her smooth back as the skirt hikes even higher. Then she's dropping and lands in my arms. Jesus, she's light—what is she made of, skin and hollow bones? For a moment, I stand there holding her, just revelling in the moment. She's so tiny that I'm scared I could break her. Her hair has tumbled over my shoulders and is making my sweaty neck start to itch. Her stick-like arms are flapping as she tries to pull her dress down. I realize in a glorious moment of revelation that one of my hands is cupping her ass.

It's a very nice ass, I have to admit. Almost as nice as mine, if not better.

I set her on her feet and grin, but then freeze as she stands to her full height—which isn't very tall—winds her arm back and slaps me in the face two times in a row. She has a strong arm, and my head whips back. I probably have whiplash.

I gape at her. "What the _fuck_ was _that_ for?" I growl, clenching my fists to keep from jumping and pummelling her to death.

"You looked even though I told you not to," Skye says emotionless. "_Twice._ On top of that, you touched my butt."

"It's a nice butt," I say accidentally, and that earns me a hard kick to the shin. "_Ow._ _Shit._ Would you fucking _stop_ that?" I punch her on the arm, my anger getting out of control. She gasps and clutches it. Well, I'm not sympathetic. She _did_ just slap me twice and kick me, after all.

"Thanks for helping me down," she says. There's a catch in her voice and her eyes seem shiny, although I can't tell whether it's from tears or the lightning. Still, her head is lifted proudly and she meets my gaze steadily, with enough poison in it to make my lip curl.

"Whatever." I look away. The alleyway around us is abandoned. It dawns on me just how easy it would be to satisfy my craving right here, right now. I'm stronger than her. I could just grab her and drag her to the corner, rip her dress off and…

I can see myself doing it, too. I can already hear the fabric tearing, and imagine the smoothness of her breasts. Her hands, so small and sweaty, would be fisted in my hair and her pouting lips pressed against my shoulder. In my groin, something stiffens with pleasure at the thought of seeing Skye in pain. In despair. In my arms.

Being raped by me.

I turn almost hungrily, but she's gone. _Damn it. _She must have ran away while I was thinking of all those sick things. I listen for the sound of her heels clicking, but it's silent.

Just then, a figure emerges from the shadows. I stiffen up, because I remember him from the Starbucks when I first ran away from home. The trench coat is the same, but now he's lost the fedora and I can see his face. He's devilishly handsome. He's pale, with a straight, proud nose and high cheekbones chiselled into his expressionless face like an ice sculpture. His maroon eyes are narrow, almond-shaped, with swooping black lashes like a girl's. Locks of his raven-black hair fall into his face, but I can see that in the back it's cut short and that only his bangs are long enough to brush his shoulders.

"What do you want?" I demand. I kick a stone, sending it scuttling towards him. It stops by his feet. He bends to pick it up and then straightens, bouncing it in his black-gloved palm. He's ridiculously tall, like Claude.

"Something you've stolen from me before," he says. His voice is rich and deep and soft, with a touch of mockery colouring in it. It's definitely sexy.

I back away slowly. There's something about him that seems predatory and dangerous. _Stay away from him!_ my instincts scream.

He steps closer, threateningly. Shadows play around his ankles like a cloak.

"I haven't taken anything!" I shout. "I swear, I never stole anything!" I think then of a candy bar I stole a few days from a convenience store before I run away. It's in the Mackens' house, though, and I'm never going back there even to get out of jail.

"Yes, you have."

"You mean the candy bar?" I burst out into my girly, bubbly laugh. Chucking, I say, "You like Snickers, then? I can buy you one. I swear, I never meant to take it. I just never had chocolate before…" Even as the lie leaves my lips, I know that 1) he doesn't believe it and 2) it's not the candy bar he's talking about.

"It's not the candy bar." His expression changes then, ever so slightly that I would've missed it if I hadn't been staring at his face: his eyebrow twitches. It's like he's playing a game with me, jerking my strings just to get me into this frenzied state. He's got me worried, and he knows it.

"Who are you? What do you want?" I'm backed into a corner now, my eyes turning to search for an escape route. I'm getting angry. Who is this fucking dude, thinking he can push me around and demand answers?

Suddenly, he pounces, pressing me against the wall. Bricks scrape against my spine as he pushes my shoulders back and stares me in the face. He's so close to me that I can see every single one of his eyelashes, and his nose is almost touching mine. His eyes stare at me, full of loathing and derision, and I almost flinch as they bore into me. His eyes are so intense that I feel naked under his glare, as if he's taken off my clothes and is slowly peeling my skin away to show everything vulnerable beneath.

"I want what you took so long ago," he says harshly. His voice is low, but it's laced with power and seems to crackle like energy so that every one of my hairs on the back of my neck is standing up. Terror engulfs me, but I'm trapped in his claws.

"Let me go!" I say. His fingers are digging painfully into my shoulders, and cold seems to radiate out of them into me so that I'm going numb. Jesus, does he have fucking _claws?_ I glance down as if to check, but his head bumps mine and forces me to look into his face. He's still keeping his cool, but I can see anger hiding, lurking with the murky shadows in his eyes.

"Where is she?"

"Who?"

He smirks, nearly making my heart stop.

I'm bisexual, so I know what I'm talking about when I say that he's beautiful. I'd have liked to meet him, but not here, not like this. I'd rather have met him at a beach, during the night, so that we could walk near the waves and listen to the sound of them crashing onto the shore.

He lowers his head so that his bangs brush my neck, and he purrs into my ear, "I'm sure you know the _she_ I'm talking about, Jamie Macken. Just as sure as I am that 'Alois Trancy' isn't your real name. Tell me and I won't have to hurt you."

"You mean Skye?" I ask, suddenly realizing that she's the only girl I've really interacted with. Other than Hannah, of course, but breaking a girl's arm isn't exactly pleasant interaction.

His reaction is satisfying. It's as if he's been electrocuted; his head snaps up, his eyes brighten until they seem to glow and his lips part ever so slightly. "Skye," he says softly. "Yes, that's the one. Tell me where she is."

"I-I don't know." I glower at him. "If I knew, I'd go after her myself."

"_Stay away from her,_" he hisses—yes, _hisses_—at me. His eyes really do look like they're glowing.

And then his weight on top of me is gone, and I stare at the two bodies struggling on the ground. I recognize Claude on top of the stranger, whispering something into his ear.

"Claude!" I cheer, giggling. "Yeah, my rescuer! Go Claude, beat him up! Beat him to a pulp!"

But disappointingly, Claude doesn't beat the stranger into a pulp. He gets up instead, letting the other man get up, and they share a strange look between them. It dawns on me of how similar the two of them are: tall and slender, icy features, black hair, intense eyes. They could be related.

The stranger nods tersely to Claude and then leaves. Just like that, without giving me another look.

Claude walks up to me, his eyes on the stranger's retreating form. "Did he hurt you?"

"I don't think so." I touch one of my shoulders, and am surprised to see the fabric of my new jacket torn. It looks as if someone ripped through it with claws. What the fuck? "But he ripped my new jacket!"

"I will fix it for you." Claude reaches into his pocket and pulls out a needle and thread.

I laugh. "Claude, you're such a grandmother. You carry sewing stuff in your _pocket?_ What the hell, Claude, you have problems." I keep laughing, unable to keep a straight face as Claude takes my jacket from me and begins stitching the holes.

"Here." He gives it back after a few minutes, good as new.

"Claude, who was that guy?" I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"He was…" He hesitates. "No one of your concern. Don't bother about him."

I scowl and hit his chest. "I don't want that answer! Give me a real answer."

"He's an old acquaintance of mine," he admits. "We're not too warm towards each other."

"What's his name?"

Claude pauses before answering. "Sebastian," he finally says. "Sebastian Michaelis."

"What did he want with me?"

"Nothing. He was just toying with you." A dark cloud flits over Claude's face. "He overheard from someone that I had picked you up for some entertainment, and got a little jealous."

My eyes widen and my breath catches in my lungs. Some entertainment? I suddenly think of how close I'm standing to Claude right now.

"Is he right?" I hear myself asking. "_Does_ he have anything to be jealous of?"

Claude smiles slowly—the first time I have seen him do so. It makes him look handsome, too. Better than some fucked up Sebastian Michaelis who can grow claws out of his hands. Better than fucked up little princess Skye.

"Do you think there is?"

I step closer and lean slightly against Claude's chest, feeling the hardness beneath. "I don't know," I whisper. "But I want there to be."

"Then there will be something," Claude says, and I stare up at him in shock.

"Are you bullshitting me? Claude, are you fucking bullshitting me? You mean, there could be something between us?"

Claude lowers his head and his breath tickles my ear. "If you want it." _Master._ I think I hear him say it, but I'm not sure. I could just be hyperventilating.

"Yes. Yes. Oh, _fuck_, yes, Claude." I squirm against him. "Let's make your old 'acquaintance' so jealous that it hurts to even _look_ at me. Let's make this _Sebastian Michaelis_ regret ever seeing me."

Claude wraps his arms around me, burying his head in my hair. My heart flutters, nearly stopping. He's the predator now, but I want him to hunt, to pounce, to attack. I wait for it, my nervous heartbeat skipping against his body.

"_Yes, your Highness,"_ he whispers.


	9. Big Bad Wolf

_So… long time no see. Yay, another update! Sorry I've been busy. The updates will come, slowly but surely. Also, sorry if Claude's a little OOC in this one, but I hope you all enjoy. Please let me know what you think! Thank you to those who favourite-d or reviewed! I appreciate it! To those of you wondering about Lucas, you'll learn a bit more about that here. To those of you wondering about the romance… yes, I am planning some of everything, but the romance isn't the point of the fic._

_Warnings: profanity, sexual implications, etc._

_Disclaimer: I don't own the brilliant Kuroshitsuji, nor any of the characters in the brilliant Kuroshitsuji._

_EDIT: This will be the last chapter from Alois/Jamie's point of view, I think. Next chapter, it goes to Skye!_

**9. Big Bad Wolf**

I'm in Claude's car, sprawled across his lap limply while he gently rubs my back soothingly. His touch is reassuring and familiar, his fingers worn but still soft. I feel like a broken doll that's been played with too many times; exhausted, I'm draped over his body with my cheek nestled against his neck so that I when I inhale, all I can smell is him. Claude smells yummy—like spices and cinnamon. It's a warm scent that tingles all the way up my nose.

"How are you feeling?" Claude asks me. His voice is soft, but doesn't give away any emotion—not even concern. His hands move up to my shoulders, working at the knotted muscles.

I sag against him as his fingers make magic, and think about how to answer him. "I'm fantastic," I finally manage to say. My voice is breathy. "Fucking fantastic. Why have we never done this before?" _And why have you never told me that you have magical hands?_

"You never asked." Claude runs a hand down now to cup my butt and squeezes. My stomach quakes and I'm sure he can see my fingers shaking. "Do you want more?"

"Yes," I say with no hesitation. "More. Now. Fuck me, Claude."

It's not a matter of making Sebastian Michaelis jealous anymore. Now it's just Claude and I, feeling each other like we've never felt anyone before, and pressing our bodies together intimately. I tangle my fingers in his thick mane of hair and tug on it viciously, making his head snap forwards. Claude's golden eyes are fixated on me as he calmly strokes my body from head to foot, making goose bumps appear on my sweaty skin.

"Are you cold?"

I shake my head, but a shiver contradicts me. His caressing fingers are icy, that's all. "I'm fine," I say with a grin. "I'm actually very hot right now. I'm _on fire._" I blow onto Claude's glasses to fog them up.

"I can't see your face anymore," Claude tells me.

Captain Obvious. But I want him to be able to see me, so I wipe the mist away with my finger, leaving greasy prints. Claude takes them off to wipe them on his sleeve, but before he can put them back on, I catch him.

"Wait," I say. "Close your eyes."

He obliges, and I slowly press my fingers on top of his eyelids. Then I lean in close and kiss them; his short lashes tickle my parted lips as I taste salt. I'm so hungry that I want to devour him. Once I've finished with his eyes, I move down the rest of his face, trailing kisses down his strong nose and square jaw until I reach the corner of his lips. All this time he has been still, so incredibly still like a statue carved from ice, but now his eyes open. Gently, he pushes me away.

"Enough for now," he says quietly, and kisses the top of my head. A cluster of butterflies riots inside of me when his lips touch me.

"Why?"

"Because you are an amateur when it comes to this. You are still green and inexperienced, if I may say so. Please, rest now." While being called an amateur might be offensive, the way he says it makes it sound almost like a compliment.

I sigh happily. "Okay." For the past while, I've been able to forget about Lucas missing, but now those thoughts flood back into my mind. What happened to him? Where is he? Who took him? When will he come back? _Will_ he come back? Is he even alive?

"Something is wrong," Claude says, perceiving the tension that suddenly springs into the air between us.

No duh.

"Jamie, what is it?" For the first time, he sounds worried. My name leaves his lips like a song, the _Jay_ starting out soft and the _meee_ gathering intensity as it rises in crescendo. Shivers crawl up my spine, but I ignore them and cross my arms over my naked chest.

"Don't call me that." I stare at him boldly and he arches an eyebrow. For some reason, I find myself quoting Shakespeare, substituting Romeo's name for my own: "'Tut, I have lost myself; I am not here. This is not Jamie; he's some other where.'"

"Who said that?" Claude asks, pressing his delicate fingers together to form a steeple thoughtfully.

"Shakespeare." I grimace. I hate literature, but that quote stuck in my head when I first read Romeo and Juliet. Perhaps because I can relate it to myself so well. I really have lost myself, and have felt that way almost all my life. I've never really known who Jamie Macken was, or his purpose.

"You're not lost. You're Jamie."

"Don't." Anger begins to fill me, like soda in a can, pressing out from inside of me. I'm going to explode from the pressure into lots of tiny pieces. Claude will have to scrape pieces of me off the car roof and doors: perhaps an eyeball in the review mirror, locks of my hair tangled over the backs of the seats, my hand still clenched in Claude's.

"It is your name, no? Jamie," Claude mocks.

"I said don't call me that!" I shout, and slap him on the cheek. Any normal person's head would go whipping to the side, but not ice sculpture Claude, not Claude made of stone. He stays absolutely still, and not even a pink flush creeps up his cheekbone where my hand connected. If anything, my hand is hurt more from the impact than he is. He just gazes at me with those fucking irresistible gold eyes and blinks languidly, questioningly.

"What shall I call you, then?"

_Your Highness._ The thought flits into my mind from I don't know where, like a butterfly in a snow storm—delicate, incongruous, and beautiful—and is gone just as quickly. "You're right. Jamie is not lost. Jamie is dead," I say simply. "I've left my family and home and old life. It's right that in my new life, I should have a new name."

"Oh?"

Only Claude could say one syllable so sexily that it makes me melt into a puddle in his arms, literally. My spine seems to turn to mush and I let out a little squeak as I swoon, my head craning back against his chest. It seems ludicrous that a man can say it and sound _that_ sexy, his voice low and purring and liquefying my insides. It takes a few tries before I can get something out of my mouth. "I-I've picked it. The happy place inspired it."

"I would like to know the name that came from your happy place."

I pause to build up suspense. "Alois Trancy," I finally announce, grinning. "My name is Alois Trancy."

Whatever reaction I expected, it isn't what I receive. Claude goes completely still, his muscles tense and anger smouldering in his eyes. His jaw tightens slightly, hardly visible except that I'm staring at his face and so can see when he clenches it. It's scary.

"Alois Trancy," he repeats, staring at me as if waiting for me to confirm it.

"Do I look like a fucking parrot?" I demand. "Yes, I picked Alois Trancy. Do you like it?" For a second, I fear that he will hate it.

"No. It's good." He cocks his head to the side like a crow, assessing me. "It suits you."

"Well. Thanks." Pleasure fills me, but then I deflate again. If Jamie is dead, then so is Lucas. Lucas is a part of Jamie's life, not Alois's, and so Lucas must die with Jamie. But my heart aches at the thought of my little brother.

"You are upset again. Please. Tell me what is wrong." The words are concerned, but his voice is monotone, as if he's saying these things automatically, mechanically, out of duty.

"Lucas is dead," I choke.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, he is. Just like Mrs. Macken and Mr. Macken. Just like everyone from my old life. Okay, Claude? I'm starting a new life, where I am Alois. And I am with you." _And Skye._ The thought appears as if someone shoved it into my mind. And Skye? Do I want Skye in my new life?

I think of her slender waist and legs. Of her delicate wrists and sharp cheekbones. Of her huge, sapphire blue eyes.

Yes, I do want Skye in my life.

"I know what happened to your brother," Claude says, interrupting my pensive trance.

I jerk. "What the fuck?" I almost shout. "You know what happened to Jamie? Fuck! Tell me right _now_, Claude!"

Claude inclines his head and whispers in my ear, "But there are secrets you would need to know in order to understand."

"So tell me them!" I try to ignore the way his cold breath on my neck makes my skin break out in delicious shivers.

"They are complex secrets. Ancient secrets. And… they are cruel. Once you discover their true nature, nothing will ever be the same again. These secrets will awaken memories that aren't exactly yours, but they belong to you. Your life will change… perhaps not for the better. Once it's done, there is no going back. You have been given a second chance, Jamie Macken, Alois Trancy, to live the life you should have had. Are you sure you want it to be for naught? To discard that second chance and make the same mistakes? Because there are only two ways for this to end, and you will be determining your fate."

"If you're trying to frighten me, it's not working. Tell me!" Tears of frustration pool in my eyes. My fist slams into the seat of the car. "What's the first thing I need to know?"

"I am not of this world."

I burst out laughing. "I am _not_ a baby anymore, Claude," I giggle. "I don't believe in fairytales. Did you really think you would fool me? I mean, you _are_ a good actor and all, but not _that_ good." I pause. "Though that would be interesting. Would you be one of the three fairies who give Sleeping Beauty gifts? No, wait, you'd be Little Red Riding Hood! Oh fuck yes, I can just see it." In my mind's eye, Claude goes skipping through a dark forest, a red cloak draped over his shoulders, singing at the top of his voice as a basket of pastries swings from his arm and he plucks flowers from their stems.

"What if I were the big bad wolf?" Claude whispers.

"Rawr," I reply breathily. "Villains are sexy. You can be my big bad wolf, Claude, but don't lie to me."

"I am not. There is a story to prove it. Generations ago, in a parallel world in the 1800's," Claude begins, "there lived a boy named Alois Trancy. It was another lifetime, another world, another existence. I served as his butler. Sound familiar?"

_The happy place,_ I think, remembering the icy-eyed boy and Claude in his impeccable suit, serving him. My gut twists. The happy place that is both a memory and a dream, that isn't mine but that belongs to me. _Another me?_

"He realized his error too late to run from me, and I nearly had him. But he escaped my claws just by a breath, just an eighth of a millimetre. His soul was reincarnated in another lifetime, this one, your generation. This time, his name was Jamie Macken," Claude says softly.

"I'm sure that's exactly what fucking happened." I scowl, because scowling and hardening my heart is better for my pride than breaking down. "That's implying that you're some fucking inhuman monster. You're telling me _that_'s your secret I need to know?"

"But I followed you," Claude continues as if oblivious. His voice is husky and sinister, coloured with mockery. "And now I have you again."

I turn to laugh in his face, but freeze. His eyes. His fucking gold eyes aren't gold anymore. Now they're red, glowing, and there is a glint at each corner of his lips, like the way a vampire's fangs glint. "What. The. Fuck. Claude."

Claude smiles for the first time, and it is all pure malice and fangs. Slowly, he leans in until his lips brush my ear. "There are nightmares in this world you could never have dreamed of, Alois," he murmurs. "Horrors and demons that chase you both in dream and the waking world. I am one of those. So is Sebastian Michaelis. We chase you. We are the predators. You are the prey. Do you still feel safe with me?" One of his hands has crept up my back, and now his arm snakes around my neck and his fingers caress beneath my chin. His nails are still black.

I don't know whether he's being serious or not. I can never tell with Claude. He is telling me a story, but is it fiction or non-fiction? And do I really play a part in it? "I never feel safe around you," I whisper. "You turn me on. That's not safe. You seduce me."

"I hunt you." His smile grows wider, darker, and he laughs. I've never heard Claude laugh before: a cold, amused chuckle that reverberates deep in his chest but leaves his lips softly, like a breath of wind.

"I'm your prey? So eat me now, Big Bad Wolf."

"Oh, not right now. Maybe later. I'm waiting for you to get juicy," Claude says mockingly. "I'm not very hungry at the moment. But soon." His fingers move up to cup my cheek, and then he digs his nails in. The pain is delicious. "You asked me before why you had memories of a place you'd never been to—the happy place—and why you kept painting me and Alois, and this is why. It was your home. I was your butler. You were Alois."

"Then why am I not him when I go there? You're still the same Claude. There aren't two Claudes."

"Because you aren't exactly the same soul reincarnated. True, it's his soul, _your_ soul, but souls are like sand: fickle, constantly shifting and settling, always changing and altering with time. So instead of being _exactly_ Alois Trancy, you are Jamie Macken with aspects of Alois Trancy's personalities and flashes of his memories."

_Ice crunches. So does bone. Crunch it now, see it white as ice among the hot, boiling red blood that bubbles forth. Giggling, insane, with Claude by my side. Bring me out of the darkness. Kill them all._

My violent fits, triggered by the whispers in my mind and visions. They must be from him. Fuck you, Alois. Fuck you and everything you gave me. "But didn't your soul change?" I ask again, my voice catching. Despite everything, I _do_ fear Claude, but it's not how I fear the dark. This is a quiet fear, an intimidation, a trepidation weighing down my gut like I'm waiting for something sinister to happen.

Claude smiles for the first time. "I told you," he says quietly, "I don't have a soul."

My thoughts come slamming back to me. "You keep trying to distract me!" I gasp as his cold breath freezes the back of my neck. "Where's Lucas? I don't fucking care what you are, just tell me about him."

Claude shimmies around to face me, his body twisting across mine. "I already told you, albeit indirectly. Did you not catch it?" he asks. "I am the Big Bad Wolf. I was hunting, and the scent of my prey led me here. However, I could not reincarnate as Alois did. I am not human and have no soul. Instead, I had to take a soul to leave a gap in this world that I would fill—a sacrifice. But I could not snatch just anyone from the streets. That someone had to be capable of seeing me for me to take them. Only you could see me at first, which is why I was invisible to all but you."

Lucas had always heard the voices. He had always been a sensitive kid; he would've probably grown to sense fucking ghosts and see auras and shit, had he ever tried to develop his 'gift'. I saw the happy place and memories; he heard what went on there. He heard Claude's voice.

"Living as a spectre caught between two worlds displeased and wearied me. Lucas knew of my existence, all thanks to you," Claude says, dipping his head to me mockingly. "I needed one sacrifice to be able to stabilize properly in this world again, to continue my hunt."

He wants to eat my soul. What kind of monster is he? I think in terror, but I shake away my fears and concentrate on Lucas. The morning of the night he disappeared, he had told me that he could see Claude. It's my fault. It's my fucking fault. I didn't take him seriously enough—or I did, but I didn't watch out. I walked away, left Lucas alone and vulnerable with the Mackens.

"Claude. I don't want to know anything. Fuck you, stop it. Shut up." I cling to his sleeve, but then jerk away, both frightened and disgusted by touching him.

_My fault. It's all my fault._

"I showed himself to him, tried to get him to come with me, but he refused. He told me that you said to stay away from me." Claude smiles, but the emotion in it is not sad—it's malevolent. "Force was obligatory. So I stole him away from you…"

"Claude." I'm hyperventilating, crying, shaking, pleading for it not to be true. "Stop it. You're right, it's scaring me. I'm scared, Claude. Stop. I don't want to hear it."

"…and I devoured him."


	10. Author's Note for Part Two!

_This is just an author's note:_

_Chasing Butterflies Part One (I finally chose a title for the story! Yay!) is now complete. You will find Chasing Butterflies Part Two under my other stories, so you'll have to re-favourite/follow it if you want to get updates for the second part. So far one chapter is posted. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! Please enjoy and let me know what your thought are. _

_~DarkUnicorn14_


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